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BEIAB AND PALM 


stub? of (nrcumstance anb 
3nfluence 


BY 


ANNIE S. SWAN, 


OF ‘ ALDERSYDE/ CARLOWRIE,’ ‘ GATES OF EDEN,’ ETC-, ETC. 


^The briar and the palm are the wages of life. ^ 

— Tupper. 


American Edition. 



CINCINNATI: 

CRANSTON AND STOWED. 
NEW YORK: 

HUNT AND KATON. 


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AMKRICAN KDITION. 


This book is published in America under special con- 
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Anderson & Ferrier. 

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are fond of the diphthong ‘‘ou,” and have no “z” in 
their “civilisation;” but this story is none the less in- 
teresting for that. 





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CONTENTS. 


0 


CHAP. 

I. A STRANGE BEHEST, . 

• 

( 

• 

t 

PACE 

9 

11. BROTHER ANO SISTER, 

• 

• 


> 

20 

III. NEW FACES, . 

t 

• 

• 

r 

34 

IV. HIS father’s home, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

47 

V. BEYOND RECALL, . 

• 

• 

• 

# 

60 

VI. REGRET AND HOPE, , 

• 

f 

• 

• 

70 

VII. ‘his LITTLE LASS,’ 

• 

• 

• 

• 

85 

VIII. THE CURATE IN CHARGE, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

100 

IX. FRIENDS, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

115 

X. A woman’s HERITAGE, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

127 

XI. A REVELATION, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

139 

XII. A GENTLE HEART, . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

153 

XIII. A WOMAN SCORNED, . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

165 

XIV. A MOMENTOUS HOUR, 

• 


• 

• 

176 

XV. ‘of HIS KINGDOM,’ . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

189 

XVI. CHANGE, . , 

• 

• 

• 

• 

201 

XVII. FAREWELL, . 


• 

• 

• 

212 

XVIII. IN DARK PLACES, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

222 

XIX. DAWN, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

234 

XX. A YEARNING HEART, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

246 

XXI. THE STING OF REMORSE, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

256 

XXII. THE SAD PAST, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

272 

XXIII. LOVE CONQUERS ALL, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

287 

XXIV. SUNRISE, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

302 


r 


‘ Freeheartedness and graciousness and undisturbed trust, 
and requited love, and the sight of the peace of others, and 
the ministry of their pain — these may yet be here your 
portion, untormenting and divine, serviceable for the life 
that now is ; nor, it may be, without promise of that which 
is to come.’ — K uskin, 



CHAPTER L 

A STRANGE BEHEST. 

• They say that love, like death, 

Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd’s crook 
Beside the sceptre ’ 

Bulwer Lytton. 

OU are about to begin a new life, Denis. 
After to-morrow you will know nothing 
of this place. It must be as a dream 
to you. Only if you should ever be in 
need you may recall Hanbury Lane, and know 
there is help for you here at any and all times, so 
long as I am alive.' 

The above strange speech was spoken by a 
mother to her son, whom she most passionately 
loved, who was the idol of her heart, the object 
upon whom every hope was centred, in whom the 
ambition of a life expected to have fulfilment. 

The place in which these words were uttered 
was a dingy living-room at the back of a small 
provision shop in Hanbury Lane, a poor, squalid, 
and even disreputable thoroughfare in the neigh- 
bourhood* of London Tower. In that low, dimly- 
lighted place it would have been difficult to define 

■^‘The American Publishers have deemed it best not to change 
the orthography of the author, which is after the English lexi- 
cographers — ^‘ou” for o, and “s” for z, in certain words, etc. 





10 BRIAR AND PALM. 

the hour. It had one narrow window looking out 
into a square stone court, totally hemmed in by 
the five -storey walls of those tenements which 
shelter so many hundreds of families in the 
quarters of thq poor. It was one of the early 
days of June, such a day as becomes a wonder 
of loveliness and light in country places, but in 
crowded cities a day of heat and languor and 
insufferable weariness. The atmosphere of the 
little room behind the provision shop was close 
and hot, but not evil -smelling, because there was 
no unclean thing in the whole domain. The 
furnishings, if extremely plain and simple, were 
kept with a scrupulous regard to cleanlinesa 
There was even an air of refinement and taste 
in the disposal of these poor articles, which 
indicated that the occupants of that humble home 
must have at one time known what is commonly 
called ‘ better days.’ 

A tiny bed-closet opened oflF one side of the 
room, while at the other a door, the upper panels 
of glass hung with a neat muslin curtain, opened 
into the shop It also was scrupulously clean, 
and well stocked with articles of that quality and 
price usually sought by the patrons of such an 
emporium. The old moth-eaten counter, through 
much scrubbing, had assumed a yellowish hue, 
the copper scales and brass weights shone like 
gold, each article was arranged in its place with 
tidiness and care. It was a pleasant, wholesome 
place, an oasis indeed in the desert of Hanbury 
Lane. 


A STRANGE BEHEST. 


II 


On a low wooden chair behind the counter sat 
a young girl knitting a sock. She was only 
seventeen, but looked much older. Her grave 
face in its repose might have been taken for that 
of a woman of thirty. The expression was not 
that of a young girl. It was anxious, brooding, 
and at times not pleasant, varying of course with 
the thoughts which chased each other through 
her brain. Rhoda Holgate was a thinker. She 
carried it in her deep, flashing eyes ; it was written 
in these lines too early planted on her broad brow. 
It was not a pretty face, but striking in its 
way; and her eyes were magniflcent, capable of 
immeasurable liquid depths of tenderness, yet their 
prevailing expression was one of sullen, half- veiled 
rebellion. Her dress, a coarse, plain, cheap, black 
thing, ill-fitting and roughly made, hung about 
the half-formed figure with a certain rugged grace. 
Her tawny hair, carelessly dressed, coiled in a 
loose knot behind, made no unbecoming frame to 
her face. While the girl’s fingers were busy, her 
head was often turned towards the glass door 
which gave admittance to the inner room. It was 
then that her eyes showed active rebellion. She 
could not distinguish the words being uttered by 
those within, but it was as if the very sound of 
their voices irritated her. Sometimes she bit her 
lips, and once the colour swept, hot, strong, and 
angry, across her pale grey face. Rhoda Holgate 
had none of that brilliant colour characteristic of 
a fair skin and auburn hair. ’ Her complexion was 
as colourless as her life. 


12 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Meantime, however, it is with the pair in the 
inner room that we have to do. 

They were, as we know, mother and son. The 
mother stood upon the hearth-rug with one hand 
touching the narrow mantel-shelf, her head turned 
towards the young man sitting at the table. She 
had a tall, commanding figure, and a face which, 
though now haggard and worn, bore traces of a 
past beauty which must have been of no ordinary 
type. The mouth was very perfectly formed, but 
it had acquired in later years, through many hard 
experiences, a bitter sad curve which marred its 
beauty. Her eyes were very dark, and still 
flashed with a fine and brilliant light. Her brow 
was deeply lined, her abundant hair quite grey. 
Her hands and feet were well formed, and she 
wore her poor attire with dignity and grace. Not 
an ordinary woman, by any means, nor one who 
had had an ordinary experience. She appeared to 
be labouring under the excitement of a strong 
feeling, and her eyes never for a moment quitted 
the face of her son. He, however, did not seem 
at all moved. He was a fine-looking, even a noble- 
looking man, carrying his figure with all the ease 
and careless grace of young manhood. His resem- 
blance to his mother was strong, but his face 
lacked the force of character, the strong determina- 
tion so plainly written on that of the mother. In 
him the mouth was faulty; it had a mobile and 
tender curve which, had he been a woman, would 
have given the chief charm to his face. The 
mother had been through the furnace ; the son, as 


A STRANGE BEHEST. 


13 


yet, had not been harassed by a single care. Time 
and circumstance lead us in certain paths, and we 
carry traces of our pilgrimage with us to the grave. 
Some walk in the sunshine of perpetual joy, others 
in the gloom of perpetual care. Each has its uses, 
which we may not know indeed till hereafter. 
Denis Holgate was surprised at his mother’s utter- 
ance, chiefly because it was evidently the outcome 
of a strong emotion. He had not been accustomed 
to see her moved. Her nature had been, or had 
appeared to be, very still, undemonstrative, and 
self-contained. Her very affections she had kept 
rigidly in curb. Perhaps, however, it was not 
strange that she should unbend a little to her one 
son on the eve of his going forth from home to 
battle for himself upon the field of life. 

‘ What do you mean, mother ? ’ he asked, meet- 
ing her keen gaze with one of mild astonishment. 
‘ Is there anything behind what you say ? Why 
should I turn my back on you ? Would it not 
rather be my duty to remember all you have done 
for me, and try to repay it ? ’ 

These words were spoken calmly, and without 
any trace of loving affection. Yet they were 
passing sweet to the heart of Anne Holgate. She 
had toiled and suffered and denied herself for the 
boy, and he was not ungrateful. That was her 
reward. 

‘You have a kind and a grateful heart, Denis, 
which pleases me,’ she said soberly. ‘ I have made 
many a sacrifice on your account, to make you 
what you are, and would again for the same object. 


14 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Tell me, Denis, axe you fully equipped for the 
work you enter upon to-morrow ? ’ 

‘So far as graduation honours can equip a 
man for the serious business of medical work,’ 
returned the young man. ‘I have experience to 
gain yet.’ 

‘ Of course, but you have lacked for nothing. 
You have had every advantage in your studies, 
have you not ? ’ 

‘ Yes, every advantage.’ 

‘ Then it is your turn now to do something for 
me. If you are not as ambitious for yourself as 
I am for you, I shall be disappointed in you, 
Denis.’ 

The young man was silent for a moment. 

‘ May I ask you something, mother ? ’ he said at 
length. 

‘ What thing ? ’ 

‘ Why have you made such sacrifices to give me 
so much? Why has so great a difference been 
made between Ehoda and me? It has long 
puz7,led me.’ 

‘You shall know now. I have a story to tell 
you, Denis. I have given you a gentleman’s 
education, because you are a gentleman’s son. 
Are you curious to hear the story I have to tell ? ’ 

Denis Holgate did not at once reply. The 
thought was suddenly forced upon him that there 
might be a slur upon his birth, of which he had 
better remain , in ignorance. He scarcely remem- 
bered -his father ; he understood that his mother 
had been early widowed, and he knew she had had a 


A STRANGE BEHEST. 


15 


hard struggle for existence. But he bad not dared 
to ask any questions concerning her past ; she had 
always repelled any desire on his part to learn 
anything concerning his father, wisely or unwisely 
he could not tell. The keen eyes of Anne Holgate 
instantly divined her son’s unspoken thought, and 
a slight smile touched her grave mouth into some- 
thing of the beauty of long ago. Few smiles had 
dwelt upon the face of Anne Holgate during the 
last twenty years. Her sun had set with her hus- 
band’s death, and even her children, the abiding 
comfort of many a widowed heart, had been power- 
less to fill that worshipped place, or to take the 
edge off that irreparable loss. 

‘ I shall tell you a story, Denis,’ she said dreamily, 
and with a touch of that rare smile still lingering 
upon her lips, — ‘a story which will sound like a 
romance, but which you will know is true. 

‘ Far away from here, in a county near to the 
sea, .there is a fine old property, a family heritage 
handed down with pride from generation to genera- 
tion ; its name is St. Cyrus — St. Cyrus Abbey. 
Many years ago, before you were born, there lived 
there a widowed mother with her three sons. The 
eldest of the three, heir to the title and the estate, 
was a hard, selfish, overbearing man, who did not 
make life pleasant for his younger brothers. There 
is something grievously wrong, Denis, in the law 
which gives all to one and nothing to the others, 
though they are children of the same parent. It 
made many a bitter quarrel in St. Cyrus. When 
the three grew to manhood, the youngest brother. 


i6 


AND PALM. 


a hot-hearted, high-spirited youth, unahle to bear 
his brother’s petty tyranny, left St. Cyrus and went 
abroad, where he had obtained a good Government 
appointment. He married there, I believe, but I 
know nothing more of him. The second son was 
of delicate constitution, and, as is often the case, 
carried with it a keen and sensitive nature, 
peculiarly susceptible to every slight and injury. 
He was a student, a lover of books and art and 
music, and, as he spent his time chiefly indoors, he 
did not come much in contact with his elder 
brother. He was his mother’s favourite, and it 
was understood that her fortune was to be his. 
She would, I believe, have laid down her life for 
him, yet she did not sympathize with his studious 
tastes, and was impatient even of his delicate 
health, constantly urging him to join in his brother’s 
sports and become a man like him. 

‘ Manly she called him : the younger son was the 
true gentleman ; the other, a handsome, cowardly 
tyrant. There could be no comparison between 
them. The name oi tlie family was Holgate. 
The younger son was your father, Denis. I was 
his mother’s maid.’ 

Denis Holgate sprang to his feet in the intensity 
of his excited surprise. All trace of calm in- 
difi'erence had fled. He hung in eager expectation, 
still touched with dread, on his mother’s next 
words. 

‘ His mother’s maid ! ’ she repeated, with a slow, 
proud smile; ‘a creature ineffably beneath considera- 
tion, a mere machine, a thing paid to do menial 


A STRANGE BEHEST. 


*7 


oflSces for my lady ; yet who rose high enough to 
be enshrined in the heart of her best loved son 
who lived to become his dear and honoured wife.’ 
She drew herself up, a quiet triumph sat upon her 
sad, proud face. 

‘ I do not know that I can tell you how it came 
about, Denis,’ she continued after a pause. 

‘ Your father, not being strong, was much in the 
house, and I, Lady Holgate’s trusted maid, was 
much with her, and was sometimes required to do 
little things for him. He used to talk to me so 
kindly, Denis, for he had a noble, good heart ; his 
words used to make mine fill, for I was an orphan, 
without a living being in the world to care whether 
I lived or died. It was my lady’s charity which 
took me from the Union at Ainsborough and placed 
me in St. Cyrus. 

‘ They said I had a beauty beyond my station. 
Sir Fulke used to tell me so-in a way which made 
my blood boil. But his brother was always kind 
and respectful as he might have been to any one 
of his mother’s guests. I was grateful for it, and 
being grateful I became interested in him and 
everything concerning him. I used to steal down 
to the library after the household was asleep, and 
bring up his books to my room, where I pored over 
them, and tried to understand them and to learn 
something from them. In that way I picked up a 
little knowledge, though why I should desire it I 
did not know. By slow degrees a kind of sympathy 
and friendship sprang up between us two,— a friend- 
ship which could only have one ending for me. 1 
2 


t8 


BJi/AJi AND PALM. 


learned to worship the very ground on which he 
trod. But I never dreamed that he would lift his 
thoughts to me in the way of love, but he did ; he 
asked me openly and honourably to be his wife. 
If I were to attempt to describe Lady Holgate’s 
state of mind when this was made known to her, — 
for there was no concealment, — I should fail. She 
was like a mad wmman in her fury. She turned 
me out of the house with what ignominy I do not 
care to recall. I was willing to go, willing to give 
him up. I knew it to be true what she said, that 
I should ruin his life, and I loved him so well, 
Denis, that I could give him up. But he w'ould 
not. He made his choice. He took me, Denis, he 
made me his wife, and gave up the whole world 
for me.’ 

She paused here, wholly overcome by the sweet 
memory of that precious past. Denis Holgate 
looked on in silence full of wonder. He could 
scarce believe that this passionate woman, her face 
glorified with the light of a bygone happiness, could 
be the mother whom he had never known to lose 
her self-control. Amazement at the transformation 
somewhat dimmed his interest at first in the tale 
she was unfolding to him. 

‘ We were married,’ she said after that brief 
jjause, ‘ and came to London. Needless to say, all 
communication was at an end at once and for ever 
between us and St. Cyrus. My husband hoped to 
be able, with such connections as he had, to earn a 
living by literary work, as a journalist if possible. 
But he was not strong, and his style was too 


A STRANGE BEHEST. 


»9 

polished and refined, it was above the ordinary 
level of journalistic work. He did not succeed, 
and before a year went by I knew that we had 
made a mistake. Not that we were disappointed 
in each other, — God knows none could be happier 
than we, — ^but the step we had taken with imprudent 
haste and without any regard for the future. My 
husband was unfit to fight a hard battle. I did 
what I could, but we sank step by step, until we 
were lost in the wilderness of London. In this 
room, Denis, your father died when you were six 
years old and your sister an infant in arms. Is 
that a pleasant thought, Denis, a Holgate of St. 
Cyrus to die in this hovel, and through me ? Yet 
I loved him ; ay, how well.’ 

She covered her face with her thin hands, and 
for a time there was unbroken silence in the room. 




CHAPTER II. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 

‘Ilnman profit, earthly praise, 

Thou didst set before luy gaze, 

As tlie beacon stars of life, 

As the meed of toil and strife.* 

J EWSRURT, 

E died/ repeated Anne Holgate, breaking 
the long silence at length, and once more 
looking with calm, clear eyes upon the 
face of her son. ‘And I lived, how or 
why I do not know. It was a long time before 
[ could rouse myself even to take interest in 
you and Rhoda. At last I fancied 1 saw^ in you 
a resemblance to your father, and my heart began 
to cleave to you, as it had cleaved to him. 
I told myself that you were a Holgate, and that 
your father would wish you to be reared like a 
gentleman. You were his only son, his representa- 
tive, and there was a possibility that one day you 
might be required to mingle with his people, that 
the law would demand it. There was even a pos- 
sibility that St. Cyrus might be yours. I told 
myself that I must see to it that when that day 




BROTHER AND SISTER. 


21 


came, if it ever did, you might be able to appear 
before them without shame, and that they would 
not need to blush for you. To do that has been a 
fearful struggle for me ; I will not hide it from 
you. There have been times when my heart has 
failed me ; but new courage came, and so I have 
been able to carry you through. Had it been 
possible, I should have sent you away from this vile 
place ; I should have cut you off in your child- 
hood from such surroundings as these. But that 
I could not do without incurring debt-, which I 
would not do, even for you. Tell me once more, 
Denis, have you lacked anything ? Have you 
not been able to hold up your head among your 
fellows ? Have you not always had money in 
your pocket to pay your way and more ? ’ 

‘ I have,’ answered the yOung man in a low 
voice ; ‘ but I did not know at what cost.’ 

‘ I have told you, Denis, in order that you may 
know what a thing it is for me that you should 
succeed. Hitherto you have satisfied me com- 
pletely. Had you been a laggard or an idler in 
your work, I could not have borne it. I have 
more to say. I expect more yet. You must let 
your ambition have no limits. Only when you 
rise to the height of your profession shall I be 
satisfied.’ 

The young man’s eye kindled. His spirit was 
touched with her enthusiasm. 

‘ I have something yet to tell you, something 
which will surprise you yet more,’ she continued. 
‘I want to prepare you for every contingency. 


33 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


This place to which you arc going, Waveney, is 
only five miles from St. Cyrus Abbey, your father’s 
early home. You may go there, however, and 
nothing come of it ; only you will learn the 
state of affairs there. I am in absolute ignorance 
whether Lady Holgate is dead or alive. You must 
be very wary ; you must w^alk cautiously, and 
before you reveal yourself to them, if that should 
seem prudent or desirable, you must come first 
to me. Promise me that.’ 

Denis Holgate was bewildered. Events seemed 
to be crowding thick and fast upon him. He 
could scarcely comprehend all that was being 
revealed to him. 

‘ It may be that destiny has led you to 
Waveney, that the time is at hand for you to take 
your father’s place in the world. You will see ; 
And, above all, you will be very wary. You will 
reveal yourself to none without first consulting me. 
I can trust you, Denis ? ’ 

The look she cast upon him was half wistful, 
half commanding. She seemed anxious, as if what 
she asked was of momentous weight. 

‘ I shall do nothing without first consulting you, 
mother,’ he assured her, when he could collect his 
thoughts. He began to pace up and down the 
narrow room restlessly, with an excited look on 
his face. Perhaps already he felt that it was not 
the place for him. 

‘ One other thing, and I have done. When you 
go into the world, you will meet with many fair 
young girls likely. As yet you have known none. 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


*3 


You are young, and may be susceptible. Never 
forget who you are ; a Holgate of St. Cyrus. But 
you must forget this place, as I have said, except 
when you may be in need of money or advice. 
There are some things in which I may be able to 
help you. I am giving you up, Denis, for your 
father’s sake ; but if you marry otherwise than as 
a Holgate should, I shall never forgive you. You 
must never commit the terrible mistake your father 
made.’ 

Denis Holgate made no reply, but continued 
his restless walking to and fro. As he passed the 
glass door, he happened to raise his head, and saw 
above the muslin screen the head of his sister 
Ehoda. She was sitting behind the counter, but 
her work had fallen from her hands, her face was 
leaning on her hand. It wore a strange expression 
which struck Denis. A sense of the injustice which 
had been done to her came suddenly home to him ; 
and involuntarily found expression in the words, 
‘ Poor Ehoda ! ’ They were, spoken to himself, but 
his mother caught them. 

‘ Why should you pity Ehoda ? ’ she said sharply. 
‘ She can be nothing to you. I have purposely 
kept you apart. I did not wish you to become 
attached to each other, because I knew this must 
come. You and she will walk different ways, of 
course, but you need not pity her. She shall be 
■well cared for. She is a clod like me, a daughter 
of the people. Little will satisfy her. She shall 
have food and clothing, and will wish no more.’ 

Anne Holgate spoke with emphasis and passion. 


*4 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


but there was a secret apprehension in her soul. 
Of late there had been an upheaving of the girl’s 
nature. She had begun to question, even to rebel. 
It had indeed become almost imperative that Denis 
should leave home, so that the contrast, daily 
growing more marked, between the brother and 
sister might be removed from before the eyes of 
Rhoda. In childhood she had been made to give 
way in all things to her brother, and had obeyed 
through fear of her mother. But with years that 
fear had diminished, and a rebellious kicking against 
unjust law had come in its place. 

‘ You will be careful, in your intercourse with 
the people } OU will meet in your new sphere, not 
to allude to your upbringing,’ resumed Mrs. Hol- 
gate, having disposed of Rhoda. ‘Were it to be 
known where you have been reared, it would be an 
insuperable barrier in the way of your success. It 
is a despicable, degrading pride which rules the 
world, as I have bitterly proved, but it is all- 
powerful, and must be pandered to. Are you 
listening to me, Denis ? ' 

‘ I am ; and I know that you are right,’ he 
returned somewhat gloomily. He felt depressed by 
the conversation, which had given to him a morbid 
view of life. A one-sided view also ; his mother 
spoke from her own harsh experience. The lovely 
and desirable things of life had not come much in 
her way ; perhaps it was not strange that she should 
have ceased to believe in their existence. 

‘ You have proved the truth of my words, 
then ? ’ she said inquiringly. ‘ I suppose, had you 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


25 


mentioned where your home was to your fellow- 
students, they would have been surprised.’ 

‘ Some of them would never have spoken to nor 
recognised me again. They are insufferable cads,’ 
said Denis hotly, smarting still at the memory of 
certain snubs to which his ignorance of the world’s 
ways had subjected him in his student life. 

‘ Oh, I know them well,’ said his mother, with a 
significant nod. ‘ Then you understand how it is 
to be. There are to be no comings and goings 
between Waveney and Hanbury Lane. Unless you 
are in need of money or advice, as I said, you 
must not even write to me. Only once a year I 
should like to hear how you are succeeding, — once a 
year as long as I live.’ 

Denis Holgate stood still in the middle of the 
room, and looked at his mother. His heart was 
touched as it had never yet been, his face wore a 
softened and beautiful expression. The magnitude 
of his mother’s self-sacrifice stirred his innermost 
being. It showed a strength and even heroism 
such as he had never come in contact with. But 
something within him whispered that it was a 
mistaken heroism, that she was sacrificing herself 
to a false idea. The best impulses of his heart 
revolted against the thought of turning his back 
upon the woman who had made him what he was. 

Anne Holgate, while absolutely worshipping this 
boy, had purposely made herself unlovable to him. 
She had even repelled the affection which in his 
earlier years had gone out to her. Why? Because 
she had the future, this day, perpetually before 
3 


26 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


her, and wished him to cross the bridge between 
the old life and the new with the least possible 
pain to himself. Thus her self - abnegation was 
very complete, and in its way wholly pathetic and 
noble. She did not like that look, though it sent 
a warm thrill to her heart. She thought it showed 
a wavering, a slight indecision, and her eye grew 
stern. Before, however, anything further could be 
said, the glass door was impatiently thrown open, 
and Ehoda entered. Denis turned and looked at 
her, conscious of a vast and even a tender pity. 
He had never been nearer loving his sister than at 
that moment, though she had often jarred upon his 
susceptibilities, which education had made finer 
than hers. They certainly presented a contrast, 
the gentlemanly young man and the poor, depressed, 
common-looking girl. But there was that in her face 
which his lacked, a splendid power. In a few years 
Ehoda Holgate would be either a noble and good 
woman, or the reverse. There could be no middle 
course for her. She was not an ordinary woman. 
But her brother detected nothing of such promise, 
though it was beginning dimly to dawn upon the 
mind of the mother. 

He was moved as he looked at her. He was 
about to go forth into a world full of hope and high 
possibilities, but Hanbury Lane was the doom of 
Ehoda. The thought troubled Denis Holgate so 
much that he felt uncomfortable in her presence. 
When she entered he took his hat and went 
through the shop and out into the street. 

‘ Are you tired staying in the shop, Ehoda ? 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


z^ 


her mother asked. ‘ Surely you have had few 
customers this afternoon ? ’ 

‘ I have had enough/ Rhoda answered abruptly. 
‘ It is tea-time. Why has Denis gone out ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know. He comes and goes as he pleases. 
We have no right to question him. Get tea, then, 
and I shall stay in the shop.’* 

Rhoda sat down on the hearth and fixed her 
eyes on the fire. Her mother felt irritated, think- 
ing she was sulking. She was seldom just, never 
indulgent to Rhoda. But she was not conscious of 
her own harshness. 

‘ Get tea when I tell you, Rhoda, and don’t sulk,’ 
she said sharply. ‘ What moods have taken you of 
late ? You used to be a handy, useful girl to me ; 
what is wrong now ? ’ 

Mrs. Holgate was very uneasy concerning Rhoda. 
She did not like her moods, her restlessness, her 
occasional bursts of passion. She would have 
preferred her to continue happy, good-natured, 
contented as of yore, pleased with a new frock or a 
day’s outing. This change boded ill for the success 
or peace of the future she had mapped out for 
Rhoda. Anne Holgate was about to be taught 
that the power to order the lives of others could 
not be permitted her. It is a lesson many human 
beings have to learn ; it is 'good for us to be 
reminded occasionally of our own impotence. 

‘Denis is going away to-morrow, mother,’ said 
Rhoda presently, ignoring the questions which had 
been put to her. ‘ Where is he going ? ’ 

‘ That need not concern you,’ was the cold, curt 


28 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


answer. ‘ He is going where neither you nor I can 
follow him. We can have no part in his life.’ 

‘ Why not ? ’ 

‘ Because he is a gentleman. He will be above 
us. He must move in a different sphere.’ 

‘ A gentleman ! But he has lived here. He 
belongs to us. I am his sister, and will always be, 
however high he may go,’ said Rhoda, with a certain 
slow satisfaction which irritated her mother afresh. 

‘ He will soon forget that, and right and fit that 
he should. We are not his equals. What do we 
know in comparison with him % ’ 

‘ He belongs to us,’ repeated Rhoda. ‘ I shall 
not forget that I am his sister, nor shall he, though 
he may try.’ 

‘ What do you mean, girl ? ’ 

‘ What I say.’ Rhoda lifted her large, calm eyes 
to her mother’s face. ‘ I want to know now why 
so much has been given to him and nothing to me. 
Is it because he is a man and 1 am a woman ? 
There is a difference between the two in the world, 
I know, but not so great, I think, as that you have 
made between him and me. I have looked about 
everywhere, and I see no brother and sister brought 
up as we have been. Most share alike. Why did 
not we ? ’ 

Mrs. Holgate turned to the shop door. She 
would not condescend to any explanations with 
Rhoda. She was only a girl, to be treated as a 
child. 

Such was the mother’s mistaken thought. 

* Don’t trouble your head with such things, 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


29 


Rlioda, like a good girl. Get tea now, and if you 
behave you shall have a new dress next week,’ 
she said, and, entering the shop, closed the glass 
door. 

Ehoda gathered herself up with a slow, bitter 
smile, and set on the kettle. Her tongue was 
silenced, but her heart was in active rebellion. Of 
late questions had arisen in her mind demanding 
satisfactory answers. Ehoda, too, was awakening. 
She was beginning to think, to ponder even on the 
problems of life. She was not made happier there- 
by. The child was gone, the woman, with a 
yearning, troubled heart, stood upon a perilous 
brink. She had need just then of some wise, 
loving, guiding hand. The voice of experience 
and of love might have stilled her questionings ; 
without it, and pondering things in her own undis- 
ciplined heart, it was inevitable that she should 
arrive at conclusions which were wholly wrong. 

Denis did not come back to tea. Mother and 
daughter partook of the unsociable meal in silence 
together, with the shop door ajar, so that no 
customer or thief could enter unobserved. Mrs. 
Holgate had suffered severely from the pilfering 
tendencies w^hich prevailed in Hanbury Lane, and 
had learned, through hard experience, to keep a 
strict watch on her goods and chattels. 

‘ I am going out this evening, mother,’ Ehoda 
said, as they rose from the table. 

‘ Where ? I do not like .you to go prowling 
about the streets alone. It is not good nor safe 
for a young girl.’ 


30 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ I don’t prowl, I walk,’ Khoda answered sul- 
lenly. ‘ Why is it not safe ? Nobody ever 
meddles with me.’ 

‘Denis does not like it. He prefers that you 
should stay indoors,’ said Mrs. Holgate. 

Ehoda’s blue eyes flashed. 

‘ I will go just because he does not like it ! ’ she 
said rebelliously. ‘Why should he meddle wdth 
me ? Do I trouble him ? If I may not question 
what he does, he has no right with me.’ 

So saying, Rhoda flung a little faded shawl about 
her shoulders, tied on her hat, and walked out of 
doors. Her mother followed her to the shop door, 
and watched her go with a perplexed expression on 
her face. The girl troubled her ; but she allowed 
her to go without further remonstrance. She was 
wholly engrossed with Denis to-night, but to-mor- 
row he would be gone, and she would have time to 
deal with Rhoda. 

It was a lovely evening, the close of a choice 
summer day. But in Hanbury Lane the air w^as 
stifling and evil-smelling. A sense of oppression, 
both physical and mental, stole upon Rhoda Hol- 
gate as she threaded her way through the narrow 
street. She had set out in haste, but soon slack- 
ened her pace, and looked about her wdth her 
usual compassionate interest. More than once she 
stopped to speak to some miserable creature, or to 
pat a ragged urchin on the head as he played 
among the refuse in the gutter. Rhoda was a 
favourite with the people in Hanbury Lane, because 
she did not hold herself aloof from them. She was 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


31 


always willing to help. Many a tired mother had 
she relieved by carrying her children off for a long 
walk. Many an hour had Rhoda paced the streets 
with a ragged, sickly baby in her arms. Mrs. 
Holgate knew nothing of these good deeds. She 
would have forbidden them had she known ; but 
Rhoda kept her own counsel in many things. She 
had never been encouraged to give her confidence 
to her mother. All her life she had been cast back 
upon herself, with no channel for her affections, no' 
outlet for the many longings which possessed her. 
The girl had an earnest soul, which might have been 
trained to fine issues. But she had been left to 
mould it as she liked. Hanbury Lane had long 
been a problem to Rhoda. She had known its 
wretchedness all her life, but it was only of late 
years that she had begun to try to understand it. 
Why should these things be ? was a question Rhoda 
had been long asking ; and, being ignorant, she had 
blamed the innocent for the wrongs of the poor. 
The rich, who lived in the great world at the other 
side of the city, Rhoda hated with a mortal hatred. 
She regarded them as unscrupulous oppressors, who 
ground the faces of the poor in order that their 
own greed and selfishness might be gratified. 
Rhoda never dreamed that any blame whatsoever 
could attach to the poor themselves. They were 
martyrs in her eyes. Her views had been taken 
largely from books and pamphlets which had a 
large circulation in Hanbury Lane, and which 
issued from the socialistic press. These Rhoda 
devoured, necessarily in secret, and, not being able 


32 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


to discriminate between truth and falsehood, she 
accepted all these exaggerated statements as truth. 
It was pernicious reading for a young, hot-headed, 
impulsive girl. It excited her, and filled her with 
burning indignation. All this went on undreamed 
of by her mother, who had unconsciously added 
substantial weight to the arguments Rhoda was 
accustomed to have set before her in her literature. 
In her own home and family life, Anne Holgate had 
given a striking example of the distinction between 
class and class. She had drawn a hard and fast 
line between her two children ; and her conduct 
had taken a deep hold upon the heart of Rhoda. 
She brooded over it by day, and dreamed of it by 
night. She thought of it that June evening as she 
took her way through the labyrinth which lay be- 
tween Hanbury Lane and the West End. Rhoda 
spent many an hour wandering through the streets, 
and in the summer evenings she often went to the 
Park, and watched the riders in the Row and the 
fashionable throng on the promenade with a strange 
bitterness in her soul, contrasting the purple and 
fine linen of Belgravia with the rags and tatters 
of Hanbury Lane. It was about seven o’clock 
when she crossed the Park and took up a place 
close to the railing separating the Row from the 
promenade. She was only one of many, and no 
one paid any heed to her, nor guessed what was 
passing in her mind. While she was standing thus, 
a pair came cantering gaily up the Row, apparently 
engrossed with each other. They were both young, 
and the lady so dazzlingly fair that in spite of her- 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


33 


self Ehoda looked at her in wonder and admiration. 
She was only a young girl, and her figure was very 
slender and graceful, being set off by the exquisite 
fit of her habit. She had a spray of jessamine at 
■ her breast, and when her horse shied at the girl 
close to the railing, the flower fell just at Ehoda’s 
feet. She stooped and picked it up ; and the lady 
reined her horse, and, stooping from her saddle, 
bade her keep it. The smile with which she spoke 
was beautiful and gracious, but it stung Ehoda, 
because it seemed to measure a wide gulf between 
them. With a frown she crushed the delicate 
blossom in her hand and threw it into the dust of 
the Eow. She immediately turned away, but not 
before she had seen the painful flush rise to the 
lady’s face and the tears starting in her eyes. She 
had not expected that, and somehow the memory 
of the flush and the sudden tear haunted her un- 
pleasantly all the way home. 



CHAPTER IIL 

NEW FACES. 

‘ Pride is not a bad thing, when it only urges us to hide our own 
hurts— not to hurt others.^ Geo. Eliot. 


HUT that window, Lyddy ; I feel a 
draught.’ It w’as a fretful, peevish 
voice which quite prepared one to see 
a fretful, peevish face in the speaker. 
She was a woman past middle life, a faded, delicate- 
looking creature, who had been accustomed to 
make much of herself and her ailments. She was 
lying on a couch in a pleasant sitting-room, and 
though the atmosphere, in spite of the open case- 
ment, was very close, she had a pile of shawls 
about her and a white Shetland wrap arranged 
gracefully about her head. From out that becoming 
frame there looked a thin, pale face, which still 
retained a kind of childish prettiness ; but it was 
a weak face, totally devoid of any evidence of 
strength of character. 

‘Nonsense, mamma! it is only a summer wind, 
and it is as pleasant as possible,’ returned a clear, 
firm voice, quietly and cheerfully. ‘ If I shut this 




NEW FACES. 


35 


window we shall he stifled, and you will req^uire a 
deluge of eau de cologne immediately.’ 

‘ I should not have required to ask your father 
twice to shut a window for me, Lyddy,’ said Mrs. 
Bolsover reproachfully. 

‘ I know that, mamma ; I don’t suppose you 
would have asked him even once,’ answered Lydia, 
with a quiet smile. ‘ I think you forget sometimes 
that I knew papa as well as you.’ 

Mrs. Bolsover was silenced. She was no match 
for her daughter, who had a quiet way of setting 
her aside which often aggravated Mrs. Bolsover. 
But she did not complain, for Lydia was a good 
daughter to her in the main, and was her sole 
support. 

Mrs. Bolsover was a widow, and, though it was 
well enough known that her wifehood had been a 
species of bondage, she tried to delude others into 
the idea that she had been a fondly cherished 
wife. In her husband’s lifetime she had feared him 
greatly, but now she reverenced his memory almost 
slavishly. But Lydia did not and could not forget 
the petty tyranny her father had exercised over 
theiti. She remembered when they dared not 
go out or come in without his sanction, when 
every penny spent in household affairs had to be 
rigorously accounted for, when life had been made 
a burden by his selfish and domineering ways. 

He had been an attorney in the neighbouring 
market town of Ainsborough, and was supposed to 
have done Mary Anne Linacre a great honour in 
making her his wife. Her mother had kept a little 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


3<5 

shop in the market square, and Mary Anne had 
made dresses for her living. So it was accounted 
a lucky thing for her when George Bolsover fancied 
her pretty face and married her. But Mary Anne 
had paid dearly for the honour ; she had not lived 
a happy life. The attorney soon tired of the 
pretty face, and was not loth to remind her of the 
obscurity from which he had raised her. He was 
a shrewd enough business man, hut had never 
been able to make headway in Ainsborough against 
the Brothers Brereton, an old and honourable firm 
of solicitors who held the family secrets of many 
an ancient house in their keeping. 

Bolsover had never made more than a bare 
subsistence, and when he died suddenly, in his 
fiftieth year, he left his widow and one child 
penniless. Lydia Bolsover, out of the hard train- 
ing of her youth, had become a self-reliant, capable 
woman, and when her father died she found a way 
for herself without making any fuss. She could 
accept the inevitable, and though she had pride 
enough, she could keep it prudently in check. 
But she never forgot anything, nor forgave an 
injury or a slight. 

A good word spoken by the vicar of Ainsborough 
had secured for her the situation of school teacher 
in Waveney, a little village six miles from the 
town. The salary was not large, but the pict-uresque 
cottage in which they lived was free-rented, and 
Lydia managed to make ends meet. She did not 
like her work, though she was a capable and 
successful teacher. It had to be done, therefore 


NEW FACES. 


37 


she did it well. She was respected hut not beloved 
in Waveney. There was a kind of armed peace 
between her and Mrs. Wagram, the wife of the 
vicar, and Mrs. Dacre, the wife of the doctor. 
Miss Bolsover resented their interference with the 
school work, and serenely went upon her own lines, 
without paying the slightest attention to their 
suggestions or openly expressed wishes. She was 
never rude nor uncivil, her manners were those of 
a lady, but she simply ignored them, though they 
were patronesses of the school and potentates in 
Waveney. Miss Bolsover performed her school 
duties conscientiously and efficiently, but absolutely 
declined to become factotum to Mrs. Wagram, or 
to comport herself humbly before her. Something 
of Miss Bolsover’s characteristics could be gathered 
from her appearance. She was tall and straight, 
and carried her well-made figure with an easy 
grace. Her face was clear-cut and healthy-hued, 
her eyes large and keen, her mouth firm and yet 
not without a certain sweetness. There was not 
an undecided feature in her face. Her attire was 
always faultless, though conspicuously plain and 
severe in style. Miss Bolsover wore no lace ruffies 
nor ribbon bows, no ornaments except a plain gold 
brooch fastening her linen collar. Perhaps she 
had few womanly weaknesses ; certainly she had 
not vanity or afiectation. She was practical, 
straightforward, honest, and could not tolerate 
weakness in others. Undoubtedly a clever and 
capable woman, but scarcely a lovable one. If she 
had a tender side, it had never yet been exhibited 


38 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


to a human being. The children under her care 
rendered her implicit obedience and respect, but 
they feared her. She had never been known to 
deal lightly with any offender; the discipline of 
Waveney school was perfect. 

Though it was evening, her school work was not 
over. She was preparing white-seam for the sewing 
class, and it was pleasant to watch how deftly and 
skilfully her white fingers did their work. Every- 
thing Lydia Bolsover did was well done, and 
seemed to cost her no effort. 

‘ Mrs. Dacre was in school this afternoon, 
mamma,’ she said presently, without lifting her 
eyes from her work. 

‘ Was she ? That is nothing new. But I must 
say I think it queer that she should never have 
called here. My husband’s profession was as good 
as Doctor Dacre’s any day; anyway she might 
have come, seeing I’m such a good customer to her 
husband. And look how kind and friendly Mrs. 
Wagram is ! Why, she thinks nothing of sitting 
two whole hours here of an afternoon. There 
isn’t ^any pride about her.’ 

I Or you don’t see it,’ said Lydia, with a little 
-ciifl of her straight upper lip. ‘ Mrs. Wagram 
comes here and talks to you as she would talk to 
Sally Phillips, her cook’s mother. For pride there 
isn’t much to choose between the two. They make 
me sick when they come into school ; but I’m 
their match, and they know it. They hate me, 
but so long as I do my work faithfully they can’t 
hurt me, so I have the best of it.’ 


NEW FACES. 


39 


‘ Dear me, Lyddy, how you talk ! I’m sure you 
exaggerate ; Mrs. Wagram admires you very much.’ 

‘ About as much as I admire her ! ’ said Lydia, 
biting her thread through with unnecessary vehe- 
mence. ‘ I wish you wouldn’t say Lyddy, mother. 
I can’t bear to hear it.’ 

‘ You’re always finding fault with me, Lydia,’ 
said Mrs. Bolsover, making a violent efibrt to jerk 
out the name correctly. ‘ I know I’m a burden 
on you, but it won’t be for long.’ 

‘ Mrs.Dacre had an errand this afternoon, mamma,’ 
said Lydia serenely, ignoring her mother’s speech. 

‘ The doctor’s new assistant has come.’ 

‘ Well, what of that? I hope she didn’t call to 
say he’d attend me in future, because I won’t have 
him, Lyddy ! ’ exclaimed Mrs. Bolsover excitedly. 
‘ Although I’m reduced, I won’t let myself into the 
hands of one o’ them raw lads from the hospital. 
I’ve more respect for my body.’ 

‘ I wish you wouldn’t be so idiotic, mamma,’ said 
Lydia quickly. ‘ You might let me finish what I 
have to say. She wants to know if we can have 
him to lodge here.’ 

‘ Lodge here ! and have him going out and in 
at all hours, leaving the front door open in the 
night-time, and all sorts of poor creatures finding 
their way in. Not likely. I hope you said no at 
once.’ 

* I didn’t, but I will to-morrow when I see Mrs. 
Dacre ; or I can write a note and send Patty over 
with it to-night.’ 

‘Why can’t they have him at the Dovecot, as 


40 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


they’ve always had ? 1 never heard of a doctor’s 

assistant living out of the house before.’ 

‘ There are too many little babies ; the servants 
are slaved nearly to death already/ said Lydia, 
curling her lip again. ‘ I should think the assistants 
would approve of the new arrangement. I’m told 
they don’t have it all their own way. The vittles 
is skimp, as Patty would say.’ 

‘ Do you say so ? and her always hanging in silks 
and velvets,’ said Mrs. Bolsover quite vivaciously. 
She dearly loved a bit of gossip, and Lydia did 
not often purvey for her. ‘ Well, Lyddy, even in 
my hardest times, when your poor father was 
struggling up, I never took it out of my inside to 
put it on my outside ; I was above that.’ 

‘ We sometimes hadn’t much either for inside or 
outside,’ retorted Lydia, who always recalled the 
stern reality of the past as a foil to her mother’s 
sentimental recollections. 

‘ What would he pay suppose we were to take 
him in ? ’ asked Mrs. Bolsover. 

‘ I didn’t ask. But as I thought you were set 
upon a lodger, mother, I said to Mrs. Dacre she 
might tell the assistant to call to-night.’ 

‘ Call ! Then I must have another cap on. Why, 
he might come in at any minute, and me such 
a guy.’ 

‘ Don’t trouble ; very likely he won’t look at you 
except in the light of a landlady who may or may 
not make capital out of him. Lie down and let 
us talk of it. Do you suppose Patty is able to 
undertake any extra work ? It must be under- 


NEW FACES. 


41 


stood that she and not I would require to clean 
the lodger’s boots and wash his tea-cups,’ 

‘ Patty’s a big strong girl ; there’s nothing to 
hinder her doing for him. And if he’d pay the 
matter of a sovereign a week, Lyddy, it wouldn’t 
be to be despised.’ 

‘ No, we should be the better for it. Doctor 
Dacre’s bills are heavy enough. It takes my 
salary to make ends meet ; there’s nothing left 
over. I have been thinking of late, mamma, that 
something would need to be done.’ 

‘ Then, if he comes, you’ll say you’ll take 
him.’ 

‘ You will. I am not to be his landlady.’ 

‘ But the house is yours, Lyddy.’ 

‘But you are the mistress. You must make 
arrangements with Doctor Holgate.’ 

‘ Holgate I is that his name ? I wonder if he’s 
any relation of the Holgates of St. Cyrus ; you 
know the Abbey on this side of Ainsborough. 
My grandmother was housekeeper there for over 
forty years.’ 

‘ Not likely ; and, mamma, don’t you, I beseech 
you, go informing Doctor Holgate of all the 
relations you had who served in great families. 
It won’t improve my position in Waveney to have 
it known that your grandmother was a housekeeper 
at St. Cyrus.’ 

‘ Who said I’d say anything to the young man ? ’ 
said Mrs. Bolsover weakly. ‘ I must say you catch 
me up too quick, Lyddy. You are very hard on 
your poor mother. You’re too like your poor 
4 


4a BRIAR AND PALM. 

father in that. You’ll never get a husband if you 
snap at young men the way you do at me. They 
like to be treated civil, as you’ll find to your cost 
when you’re a miserable old maid.’ 

Lydia Bolsover smiled slightly, and, pausing in 
her work, looked through the open lattice up the 
long village street, with its sheltering lines of 
spreading lime trees clothed in all the beauty of 
early summer. * As she looked, she pictured her 
future, a long, dreary, monotonous vista spent in 
teaching in the dull red brick school, and in eating 
her heart out for a fuller existence. Life con- 
tained no bright prospect for the schoolmistress of 
Waveney. 

‘There’s a stranger coming down the street, 
mother, — a young man, — and he’s making for our 
gate. It must be Doctor Ilolgate,’ she said 
quickly, and then serenely resumed her sewing, 
amused at the flutter the intelligence caused her 
mother. Miss Bolsover’s self-possession was very 
perfect. 

Presently Patty, a soft-faced, rather clumsy- 
looking girl, who had come from Ainsborough 
workhouse to the schoolhouse as a first place, 
awkwardly enough showed Doctor Holgate into 
the sitting-room. 

Miss Bolsover did not rise, only lifted her head 
and bowed gravely and distantly. Mrs. Bolsover 
fussily excused herself from rising, and begged 
him to be seated. 

‘ My name is Holgate,’ said the stranger courte- 
ously, and with a slight backwardness of ^planner, 


NEW FACES. 


43 


as if he found himself in an unusual situation. 
‘I am Doctor Dacre’s assistant. Mrs. Dacre has 
told me you were good enough to say I might call 
here to see whether you could accommodate me.’ 

He addressed his remarks to Mrs. Bolsover, but 
looked at Lydia. It is possible that even in that 
first moment he recognised in her the stronger 
nature, and took in the relations which existed 
between mother and daughter. 

Miss Bolsover kept her serene eyes fixed on the 
seam with which her white fingers were so busily 
employed, and appeared oblivious of the stranger 
and his errand, nevertheless she did not miss a 
word. 

‘Well, I’m sure. Doctor Holgate, do sit down, 
please,’ said Mrs. Bolsover fussily, delighted to 
have a new interest in her purposeless life. ‘ I 
don’t quite know what to say about it. You see, 
though my daughter has to teach in the school 
now, we were once in different circumstances. Mr. 
Bolsover was a solicitor with a large practice in 
Ainsborough. But for his untimely death we 
should have been differently placed from what we 
are now. Wouldn’t we, Lyddy ? ’ 

‘ Doctor Holgate’s time may be valuable, mamma. 
We need not inflict our family history upon him,’ 
Lydia answered, and Holgate saw her colour rise. 
He wondered why he could not help regarding her 
with interest, she was so quietly handsome, so 
serene, so ladylike in every particular. Holgate, 
as we are aware, had small experience of woman- 
kind ; it was thus far to be expected that he should 


44 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


admire Lydia Bolsover — others did who had seen 
many fair wmmen. She was certainly not an 
ordinary-looking woman. 

A finer nature, or rather one which had had a 
different fostering, would have felt something 
offensive in her manner when she spoke to her 
mother. It was not entirely respectful, but rather 
the manner she might adopt towards her scholars. 
Holgate, however, did not notice it at that time. 

‘Well, I was just going to say, when you 
interrupted me, Lyddy, that we might make a 
stretch to accommodate you, just to oblige Doctor 
Dacre. I have a great respect for Doctor Dacre ; 
a most gentlemanly man. Doctor Holgate. I think 
you will find him that.’ 

‘ I am sure of it, ma’am,’ said Holgate, with a 
slight smile. 

‘ And Mrs. Dacre is very nice too in her way, 
but proud, very proud — money, you know, that’s 
the secret,’ said Mrs. Bolsover wisely, nodding her 
head several times. ‘ But money isn’t everything, 
as I say to Lyddy sometimes, hloney won’t make 
a gentleman.’ 

‘ I quite agree with you, ma’am,’ assented 
Holgate. 

‘ Well, as I was saying. Doctor Holgate, you’ll 
find Waveney a very nice place, though I daresay 
dull enough for a young man. There’s a good 
deal of stuckupness in it, as Lyddy could tell you. 
But I daresay you won’t mind that when you have 
your work to attend to, and you’ll always find— 
Well, Lyddy, what now?’ 


JVJrW FACES. 


45 


Miss Bolsover put down her sewing and lifted 
her large, calm eyes to Holgate’s face. She was 
very much annoyed, but there was no outw'ard 
sign. But the children in school knew and 
dreaded that icy calm. It foreboded a storm. 

‘My mother is not strong. Doctor Holgate, as 
you will see,’ she said, in her clear, ringing voice. 
‘ You will excuse me if I take part in the conversa- 
tion. Perhaps, if you tell me what accommodation 
and attention you would require, I could tell you 
at once whether we could suit you.’ 

Holgate bowed, a trifle confusedly. Miss Bol- 
sover ’s manner was haughty, almost patronizing ; 
he felt that it was condescension for her to enter- 
tain his proposal for a moment. 

‘ I have never lived in apartments, Miss Bolsover, 
but I suppose I would require two rooms, and, as 
to attention, I should give as little trouble as 
possible. I hope you will take me in.’ 

‘ We have only one maid, and she is not at all 
experienced ; but if you care to give us a trial, we 
shall do our best for you. We are anxious to let 
the rooms, because we need the money. Doctor 
Holgate. It is as weU to let you understand that 
at once.’ 

Holgate was at a loss what to say ; however, 
after some further talk, the liiatter was settled, 
and it was arranged that he should bring his 
belongings to the cottage on the morrow. 

Then Miss Bolsover rang the bell for Patty 
to show the gentleman out. Mrs. Bolsover’s 
hospitable ideas were shocked at this. 


46 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ Dear me, Lyddy, you might have gone to the 
door with him yourself, it would have been more 
neighbourly like,’ she said in a remonstrating 
voice. ‘ He seems a nice decent lad ; — though I 
see plainly enough he isn’t a Holgate of St. Cyrus. 
They’re all fair, with ruddy skins and auburn 
hair ; — but a nice, decent, civil-spoken young man ; 
don’t you think so, Lyddy ? ’ 

‘ I don’t think anything about him, mamma. 
I only hope he’ll pay regularly ; that’s the main 
qualification in a lodger,’ said Miss Bolsover, with 
a careless yawn. 

‘ Of course, so it is. Still it makes a difiPerence 
to have a nice young gentleman coming out and 
in. I saw him admiring you, Lyddy, more than 
once.’ 

‘ Nonsense, mamma 1 ’ 

‘ No ; it’s true I’m a stupid creature, but I saw 
that well enough. It mightn’t be a bad thing ; 
for of course some day he’ll have a berth like 
Doctor Dacre’s, and that wouldn’t be to be 
despised.’ 

‘ I don’t understand you, mamma,’ said Lydia, 
though she knew very well what was meant. 

‘ Oh, don’t you ? _ Well, what if he falls in love 
with you, Lyddy, as what could be more natural ? 
For you are a good-looking girl, and he’s a fine- 
looking young man, and you’d be a handsome, 
well-matched pair.’ 



CHAPTER IV. 
ms father’s home. 

‘0 idle dreams, 

That fret my life away I’ 

ENIS HOT.GATE was sitting by Ibe fire 
in bis own room at the schoolhouse on 
a winter’s night. He had had a hard 
day’s work out of doors, and was very 
tired, as his face betrayed. He was thinking, as he 
sat there, of what? Seven months ago he had 
come to Waveney, to enter upon the first stage of 
his life-work ; and, looking back, what did he see ? 
It seemed years instead of months since he had 
left his home in the Tower Hamlets ; and every 
day he became less and less inclined to think of it 
as his home. He wondered now that he had so 
long tolerated his early surroundings. They seemed 
wretched and even vile in comparison with those 
of the present. As was perhaps natural, he often 
compared the ladies with whom he came in con- 
tact with the mother and sister he had left in 
London. Sometimes he found himself contrasting 
Rhoda with Doctor Dacre’s sweet fair- haired eldest 



48 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


clangliter, or with Lydia Bolsover. The result was 
the thought of Rhoda became repugnant to him. 
When he remembered her poor, mean, depressed 
appearance, he wished there was no tie between 
them. The new life, then, was plainly hardening 
Denis Holgate. He had got the length of feeling 
secretly ashamed of his nearest and dearest. He 
was popular in Waveney. Doctor Dacre, a good- 
natured, gentle-hearted man, found his new assistant 
so capable and energetic that he bestowed upon 
him many a hearty word of commendation. The 
poorer people adored him ; he was invited in a 
friendly way to the best houses in the neighbour- 
hood. Perhaps his fine appearance helped him 
greatly, enhanced as it was by a modest, quiet, 
unassuming manner, which commended itself to 
the sensible. But a secret conceit and pride of 
self were creeping in upon Denis Holgate, as 
perhaps w^as natural. He began to think well of 
himself, to feel that he was making a position, 
and his day-dreams grew very brilliant. He felt 
impatient of the dark background made by Han- 
bury Lane and its memories, he tried to forget it 
altogether. But, like all other shadows, it was 
obtrusive in its nature. Sometimes, when he was 
enjoying himself at a social gathering in some fine 
house, a sudden picture of the little shop, with its 
smell of musty provisions, would rise vividly and 
unpleasantly before him, and he felt ashamed, not 
of himself, but of his past and all its connections. 
'I'he loving self-sacrifice his mother had made for 
him began to lose the beauty and pathos which had 


ms FATHERS HOME. 


49 


touched him when it was first presented to him. 
The injustice done to Ehoda also faded away ; he 
could think of her condition placidly in so far as' it 
affected herself. Hanbury Lane was fit enough 
for her. DoubtFiSS had these things been set as 
plainly before him as I have set them down here, 
he would have been shocked, and would probably 
have indignantly denied that he ever entertained 
them. Nevertheless, they did exist, and visited 
him often in a stealthy, half-whispering kind of 
way. Unworthy thoughts are not bold just at 
first. Being unworthy, they sneak into place 
after the manner of sycophants and time-servers. 

Holgate did not fight as he might and ought to 
have done against these unworthy thoughts. Nay, 
he rather fostered and encouraged them, until he 
began to imagine himself wronged by that strange 
past of his. When he heard others speaking with 
pride and love of the homes where they had been 
reared, he felt it hard that his mouth should have 
to be closed. He felt moved by a desire to go and 
see his father’s early home, but as yet time and 
opportunity had been lacking for the fulfilment of 
that desire. He was thinking of his fine connec- 
tions at St. Cyrus, and indulging in pleasant castle- 
building, in which he and they were the chief 
characters concerned, when a little knock came to 
the door. 

‘ Come in,’ he said lazily, and yawning as he 
spoke. It was cold out of doors ; he hoped no call 
had come to summon him far abroad. When he 
looked round he saw Mrs. Bolsover’s faded face in 


5 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


50 

tlie doorway, her mauve ribbons fluttering airily 
about her as she advanced with her dancing step 
into the room, 

‘ It’s just me, Doctor Holgate. Lyddy’s gone 
down to Ainsborough to see a friend ; she went by 
the three fifteen train. Patty has just brought in 
my tea, so I made bold to come and see if you’d 
drink a cup with me. Do ; I can’t bear to eat by 
myself, it’s so lonesome,’ 

‘ I shall be only too glad. I’m feeling uncom- 
monly lazy and sleepy, Mrs. Bolsover,’ answered 
Holgate pleasantly. ‘ Shall I come now ? ’ 

‘ Yes, before the muffins get cold. Don’t you 
notice an improvement in Patty’s muffins lately, 
Dgctor Holgate % ’ asked Mrs. Bolsover, as she led 
the way across the little hall to her own sitting- 
room. ‘ That’s Lyddy ; she’s been superintending 
Patty this while.’ 

‘ Indeed ! it is very good of Miss Bolsover to 
take trouble with Patty. I have noticed an im- 
provement lately,’ answered Holgate, as he took 
his seat by the cosy fire, quite unconscious of Mrs. 
Bolsover’s keen scrutiny. The good lady had an 
object in inviting Holgate to a private tea-drink- 
ing in her daughter’s absence. She wished to find 
out whether there was likely to be anything 
between the two. The courtship which she had 
so confidently expected had advanced very slowly. 
Indeed, it could hardly be said to have advanced 
at all. Lydia was very stiff and haughty in her 
behaviour towards the surgeon, while he seemed 
to be wholly engrossed with his work. The most 


HIS FATHER'S HO MR 


S* 

evil-disposed tongue in Wavenej could find nothing 
in the life at the schoolhouse to hang a tale upon. 
Miss Bolsover was the personification of dignified 
discretion. 

‘ And how are you liking Waveney, Doctor 
Holgate ? ’ asked Mrs. Bolsover, as she poured out 
the tea with rather an important air. She was 
feeling that the strain of Lydia’s severe presence 
was removed. She could enjoy a real gossipy half- 
hour with the surgeon without fear of reproof. 

‘ Oh, I like it fairly well. The people are very 
kind to me, notably yourself, Mrs. Bolsover.’ 

‘ Oh, it isn’t me, it’s Lyddy. She sees after 
everything. She’s so managing and clever — such a 
head. Doctor Holgate, just like her poor fatherlsl 
Bolsover was a born lawyer ; so is Lyddy, only you 
see she’s a woman,’ said Mrs. Bolsover, laughing at 
her own smartness. ‘ Don’t you think I’m very 
well off, to have a girl like Lyddy ? ’ 

‘ You are indeed,’ answered the surgeon sincerely 
enough. He honestly admired and respected Lydia 
Bolsover ; had she been less reserved, that feeling 
might have ripened into something warmer. 

‘ Well, you’re getting on in Waveney. There’s 
people that would rather have you than Doctor 
Dacre. Not that they’ve anything against him, — 
he’s a gentlemanly man if ever there was one, — but 
they think you’ve greater ability. I have heard 
even Lyddy say so, and I guess she knows.’ 

‘ I did not know Miss Bolsover thought so well 
of me,’ said the surgeon, with a smile. ‘ She will 
have nothing to 'say to me, as a rule.’ 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Sa 

‘Oh, that’s just hfer way, Doctor Holgate!’ ex- 
claimed Mrs. Bolsover, trembling with pleasurable 
excitement, for she felt that she had a great deal 
in her power. ‘ I do assure you Lyddy likes — I 
mean, respects you very much. She was always 
that still, quiet kind of creature even when she was 
a little girl. Perhaps too much so, because she 
thinks I’m silly when I’m only saying what I 
think. As I say to her sometimes, everybody can’t 
be like a tightly - corked barrel of ale, else the 
world ’ll come to an end. But when Lyddy does 
speak, she speaks to a purpose. She always means 
what she says.’ 

‘ I am sure of that,’ answered the surgeon rather 
absently, thinking of something else. 

‘ And you’re liking Waveney, and Waveney is 
liking you,’ said Mrs. Bolsover, complacentlj 
dropping another lump of sugar into her tea 
‘ Have you ever behn down at Ainsborough yet ? 

‘ Not yet.’ 

‘ Ah, well, there ain’t much to see there. It’s a 
dead-and-alive place — pretty enough in its way 
though. By the bye. Doctor Holgate, I have always 
been going to ask if you are a connection of the 
Holgates of the Abbey — St. Cyrus Abbey. That’s 
a place now I Have you ever seen it ? ’ 

‘ No, I have never seen it. Is it very fine V 

‘ Isn’t it just fine and no mistake. It’s what 
they call a show place. There’s an old ruin in 
the grounds you can see quite well out of the 
drawing-room window. Wh^ they let it stand I 
don’t know ; it was always a perfect eyesore to me ; 


ms FATHER'S HOME. 


53 


but there it is, and the family are that proud of it, 
and that frightened any of the trippers damage it, 
that they have always a keeper on the watch when 
there’s picnics in the grounds.’ 

‘ You have been there then, Mrs. Bolsover ? ’ 
asked Holgate carelessly, though he was intensely 
interested. 

‘ There ! I should say so ; why, my grand- 
mother was housekeeper there for over forty years. 
1 was often at the Abbey when I was quite a little 
gel, and the old squire. Sir Fulke, used to notice 
me that kindly on account of my curls and my 
blue eyes, he said,’ simpered Mrs. Bolsover. ‘ I 
was often at it, too, when I grew up, though never 
of course after I was married to Mr. Bolsover, — of 
course my position was different then ; but my 
sister Cicely was stillroom-maid, and was married 
at the Abbey to Sutton, who has a place of his own 
now, and doing well. They keep the “ Boot and 
Shoe ” at Crosshaven, and if you’re ever that way. 
Dr. Holgate, and call in, you’ll find a warm welcome 
from Cicely Sutton. A better-hearted creature 
never breathed ; though, of course, being married to 
Sutton, she never had my advantages, and has no 
refinement.’ 

‘ Who lives at St. Cyrus now ? ’ 

‘ Old Lady Holgate. She’s a Tartar. If I’d 
time. Dr. Holgate, I’d tell you better stories, and 
truer ones, too, than you ever read in a novel. So 
you’re no connection % Well, the name is not that 
uncommon. And Sir Fulke, he isn’t strong. It’s 
fast living that has brought him down, for ho was 


54 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


once a perfect giant. There were three brothers, 
you know, but they’re both dead, and only Sir 
Fulke left.' 

‘ What became of the other two ? ’ 

‘ The third one, Mr. Bevis Holgate, went abroad, 
to Bombay, I think, and married a young widow 
with a little girl. Both of them were drowned in 
a boat on a river there, and the poor little thing 
came home to the Abbey, though of course she 
hadn’t any claim on her stepfather’s relations.’ 

‘ What became of the second brother ? ’ 

‘Ah, that was a sadder story still ! Mr. Denis — 
he was called after my lady his mother’s Irish 
kinsfolk — was a favourite with everybody. You 
should hear Cicely talk of him ! She was still- 
room-maid at the Abbey when Mr. Denis fell in 
love wdth and married Anne Braithwaite, his 
mother’s own maid. Thai was a turn-up and no 
mistake. Dr. Holgate. Cicely said Lady Holgate 
would never hold up her head again, and she never 
has. Not that she has ever relented her harsh 
treatment of Mr. Denis and his wife, who was a 
handsome and a good girl, for 1 knew her myself 
through Cicely living there.’ 

‘ Then you don’t know what became of him ? ’ 

‘ Nobody does, except tliat he died away in 
some poor place in London. Whether he had any 
family or not nobody knows. If Sir Fulke were to 
die, it would need to be inquired into before St. 
Cyrus could go to any far-away folks.’ 

Had Mrs. Bolsover been less absorbed in her 
own reminiscences of St. Cyrus, she must have 


HJS FATHER'S HOME. 


55 


noticed a peculiar expression cross the face of 
Denis Holgate. It was an immense relief to 
him at that moment when Patty entered, saying 
there was a message come from Redacre, a little 
hamlet several miles distant, on the road to Ains- 
borough. 

‘ Now I call that aggravating!’ said Mrs. Bolsover 
regretfully. ‘ Just when we were having such a 
fine chat. Redacre at this time of night ! Nobody 
can say you eat the bread of idleness, doctor.’ 

‘ No ; but I like my work, and have no inclina- 
tion to grumble,’ said Holgate, with a smile. ‘ Good 
evening, Mrs. Bolsover. I assure you I have 
enjoyed my tea-drinking immensely.’ 

‘ I’m glad to hear it. But not a word to Lyddy, 
or she’ll go on awful at me. She’s that fussy and 
particular, you can’t think. I’ll tell her myself by 
degrees.’ 

‘ All right ; honour bright,’ said Holgate, laugh- 
ing, as he went to get on his riding-boots before 
going up to the stables. 

It was a fine, clear winter night, with a full 
moon high in the frosty sky and a flood of glorious 
light lying upon the earth. A splendid night for 
a ride, and Holgate felt his pulses tingle and the 
blood course swiftly through his veins, as he urgcnl 
the cob to a brisk trot along the hard, clean high- 
way to Ainsborough. Mrs. • Bolsover’s gossip had 
awakened in him a new vein of thought, and had 
suggested to him a possibility of which he had 
never dreamed even in his wildest imaginings. If 
her statements were all true, then there was only 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


56 

an ailing man between him and St. Cyrus I It was 
a strange, wild, exciting thought, with wdiich he 
felt himself almost entirely carried away. He was 
astonished when he came within sight of the low- 
lying, whitewashed cottages of Redacre, hardly 
realizing that he had already ridden more than 
four miles. By a strong effort he banished all 
distracting thoughts from his mind, and when he 
entered the house, where a woman was in sore 
need of his aid, he was again the calm, confident, 
self-reliant surgeon, who knew his work and did it 
well. A steady nerve and a wonderful coolness 
were characteristics of Holgate, and were the main 
elements of his success. He never allowed himself 
to be daunted or discouraged ; he did his work to 
the best of his ability, and expected good results. 
Thus any serious case which had been entrusted to 
him since his settlement in Waveney had been a 
complete success. His self-confidence carried him 
through where a man of more ability but less 
courage might have failed. He was detained 
about half an hour in the cottage, and when he 
was mounting his horse at the door he put a 
question to the woman’s husband, who had been 
watching the animal. 

‘ How far is it to St. Cyrus Abbey from here, 
Craddock ? ’ 

‘ A matter 0’ twa mile, sur, a mile an’ a quarter 
to t’ gates, an’ then th’ approach,’ answered the 
man. ‘ There’s a near cut to walk through them 
woods,’ he said, pointing to the dark belt of trees 
on the other side of the meadow which skirted the 


HIS FATHERS HOME. 


57 


road. ‘ That’s th’ way I goo to my work ; ’tain’t 
more’n three-quarters.’ 

‘ Do you work at the Abbey, Craddock ? ’ 

‘ Ay. I’m one o’ th’ woodmen ; an’ my feyther 
wur afore me, an’ his’n afore him. We’ve alius 
served th’ Abbey, sur.’ 

‘ Good masters to serve, I suppose ? ’ said Holgate 
carelessly, 

‘Wur wonce, noan noo. I wry thing’s ground 
down. The way Sir Fulke’s hackin’ an’ sellin’ t’ 
timber, sur, ’s a disgrace to mortal mon. If it 
wur known wheer the heir wur it ’ud be stopped 
maybe. There’ll be a cry after him, likely, when 
Sir Fulke dies, but then it’ll be ower late. Ivvry- 
thing’s turned into cash. The very vegetables is 
sent to Covent Garden, an’ t’ table at th’ Abbey 
ain’t what it wur. But I’m keepin’ 57-0, sur ? ’ 

‘ Not at all. I am sorry to hear such poor , 
reports of the old place. It must be grieving to 
such as you, who have been about it so long.’ 

‘ Ay is it ; tho’ maybe I han’t noan reet to com- 
plain, so lang’s I git my money regler. It all 
come, sur, of owd Sir Fulke marryin’ that Irish 
vixen — beggin’ yor parding, sur, but ivvry won 
knaws th’ owd un’s a Tartar. There’s noan good i’ 
th’ Irish, gentle or simple, a greedy, graspin’, ill- 
conditioned lot.’ 

‘ Come, come, that’s too sweeping an assertion, 
Craddock,’ said the surgeon good - humouredly. 

‘ But there, I must go. Good-night. Eemember 
my directions about your wife’s medicines. I’U 
ride over in the morning.’ 


S8 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


And with a nod the surgeon turned his horse’s 
head and rode away, not towards Waveney, but in 
the direction of the Abbey gates. He would at 
least have a look at the entrance, he told himself ; 
another day he hoped to obtain a glimpse of the 
house. But when he reached the noble and impos- 
ing entrance he found the gates wide open, and, 
without a moment’s hesitation, urged the cob into 
the dim recesses of the avenue. The trees, though 
leafless, grew so closely together, and had such 
giant boughs overlacing overhead, that only a stray 
gleam of moonlight penetrated the black darkness. 
When he had gone about half-way down, Holgate 
saw lights gleaming in the distance, without doubt 
the windows of the house. His curiosity, now 
grown insatiable, urged him forward, and a few 
seconds more brought him within sight of the grey 
old pile. He reined the cob, and sat looking with 
a strange deep interest on that noble home, whose 
towers and turrets, green with moss and ivy of a 
century’s growth, stood out in sharp, clear beauty 
against the cold wintry sky. An air of repose, of 
serene and undisturbed stillness, seemed to envelop 
it, the dignity and grace of age seemed to dwell 
serenely upon it ; it was grand, imposing, even 
affecting to Denis Holgate. Beyond the more 
modern building, the ruin of the old Abbey, so 
contemptuously alluded to by Mrs. Bolsover, was 
plainly discernible in the brightness of the moon- 
light. An exquisite and touching picture, standing 
solemnly among its ghostly elms, it seemed to 
embody the' spirit and romance of a long gone past. 


HIS FATHER'S HOME. 


■59 

This, then, was St. Cyrus ; his father’s early 
home, and his by right of heritage. One day he 
might be master here. The thought was over- 
powering. Holgate took off his hat and wiped 
the sweat from his brow. He was intensely 
excited ; had any one come suddenly upon him, 
asking the cause of his intrusion, he could not have 
given a coherent answer. But no one disturbed 
him ; he was allowed to go as he had come, unseen. 
Henceforth the interest of life for Denis Holgate 
would centre in one word — St. Cyrus ! As he 
rode through the gates again, a sudden and un- 
welcome vision rose up before him. He saw the 
little shop in Hanbury Lane, the poor, plain living- 
room occupied by his mother and Ehoda. He 
seemed to see Ehoda’s dull face in its frame of 
tawny hair looking mockingly into his. How 
hideous it all was ! Why could he not forget it ? 
Why should these past phantoms (already Holgate 
had separated them from all connection with him- 
self) rise up before him in the very moments of his 
highest self-exultation ? What link could there be 
between Hanbury Lane and St. Cyrus Abbey ? 
Surely none. 

As Holgate rode towards Waveney once more he 
saw the figure of a woman walking quickly along 
the moonlit road. He would have ridden past 
her had not something familiar struck him. He 
slightly slackened rein and looked again. Then 
the woman turned her head and stood still. He 
saw then that it was Lydia Bolsover. 



CHAPTER V. 

BEYOND RECALL. 

‘ I, too, at love’s brim 
Touched the sweet,* 

Browning. 

ISS BOLSOVER I ’ he exclaimed in sur- 
prise. ‘ I scarcely expected to see you 
here.’ 

‘ No, yet the explanation is simple 
enough,’ Lydia Bolsover answered. ‘ 1 missed the 
last train to Waveney — not my fault, you may be 
very sure. Doctor Ilolgate. So there was nothing 
for it but to walk. I only parted, from my friend 
at the Abbey gates.’ 

‘ Are you not tired ? ’ he asked. 

‘Not at all ; I am very strong, and am seldom 
tired. One is oftener wearied in mind than in 
body, I think ; at least I am.’ 

‘ Are you ? You will let me walk Harold slowly 
by your side ? I know you would not mount him. 
I am in no hurry. We may as well walk together.’ 

‘ Provided we do not bore each other,’ said Lydia 

Bolsover, lifting her fine eyes with a little gleam 
60 



BEYOND RECALL. 


6i 


to the surgeon’s liandsorae face. He Avas struck at 
that moment by her beauty. She was beautiful in 
her way. There was a fine colour in her cheek, 
her eyes shone, every movement was instinct with 
the grace of health and strength. Her attire, as 
usual, was faultless. Holgate did not know what 
she wore ; he only knew that the whole was very 
pleasant to the eye. He was inclined to be very 
friendly with her. She had opportunely inter- 
rupted a very unpleasant vein of thought. 

‘ Have you been at Ainsborough too ? ’ she 
asked presently. 

‘ I ? Oh no. I had a patient to see at Redacre, 
and just cantered along the road a bit, not being 
in a hurry. It is a fine night.’ 

‘ Very fine,’ answered Miss Bolsover; after which 
interesting remark there was a pause. She was 
not a talker, she would not make conversation 
even to please a handsome young man like Denis 
Holgate. Lydia Bolsover was at least free from 
affectation or coquetry. As a rule, the male youth 
of Waveney professed a dislike for her. She was 
too straightforward and matter-of-fact for them. 
She made them painfully conscious of any little 
weakness they might possess. Yet she never said 
anything disagreeable or unpleasant. There is a 
silence, however, which is quite as expressive and 
much more aggravating even than plain speech. 
This silence was a characteristic of Miss Bolsover. 

‘ I have been under your mother’s roof for seven 
months. Miss Bolsover, and you and I are like 
stjangers to each other,’ said Holgate, expressing a 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


6a 

thought which had sometimes been in his mind of 
late, 

‘ Yes ; and what of that ? We are civil to each 
other when we do speak, which might not be the 
case w'ere we better acquainted.’ 

‘ What am I to infer from that ? ’ asked Holgate 
laughingly. ‘ Am I a source of annoyance to you ? ’ 

Miss Bolsover laughed also. 

* Why should you be ? You are very harmless.’ 

‘ You allude to me as if I were on a footing with 
your mother’s canary and her pet cat. I think I 
have heard you say they are harmless,’ said Holgate 
a trifle dryly. He did not relish the treatment he 
received at the hands of the schoolmistress. The 
smiles and sweet words of the Waveney young 
ladies had given him an exalted idea of his own 
charms. Why did Lydia Bolsover regard him with 
such tranquil contempt ? Because she was different 
from other girls she interested him. He felt that 
he should like to see those cold, proud lips put on 
a smile for him. It would be a triumph to ruffle 
that serene composure with a breath of tenderness. 
He looked at her face, and fancied he felt his heart 
beat quicker at sight of it. Could he be in love 
with Lydia Bolsover ? The question was interest- 
ing and fascinating to him as well as to other young 
men. 

‘ 1 am very fond of Tommy and Jeremiah,’ said 
Miss Bolsover, alluding to the canary and the cat. 

‘ And if I am harmless like them you might 
extend that fondness to me, eh ? ’ asked Holgate, 
catching her humour, but bending his handsome 


BEYOND RECALL. 


63 


head a little towards her with a touch of eageruess 
oil his face. It pleased him to see the swift, hot 
colour rise in her cheek. She was not so cold, so 
impregnable as outward seeming indicated. Nay, 
if there was any truth in the adage concerning still 
waters, there must be a very passionate heart beat- 
ing in Lydia Bolsover’s breast. The day came when 
Denis Holgate wished he had left that too pas- 
sionate heart dormant, when he would have given 
worlds to recall even this one night. 

‘ Let us be friends. Miss Bolsover,’ he said eagerly. 
‘ I am sure we have a great deal in common. We 
both hate Waveney, for one thing.’ 

‘Why should you hate Waveney, Doctor Hol- 
gate ? Your position cannot be compared with 
mine,’ said Lydia Bolsover bitterly. 

‘ It’s a mean, stuck-up little place, and there is 
no scope for a man in it,’ he said loftily. ‘ When 
I see the way you are treated my blood boils. 
There is not a woman in Waveney to be compared 
to you for a moment.’ 

It was a hastily uttered, imprudent speech, exag- 
gerated too ; but to Lydia Bolsover it was wholly 
sweet. She turned her head away, and her eyes 
shone again. Holgate caught a glimpse of the 
exquisite blush which mantled her cheek. It told 
its own tale ; and again he imagined himself in 
love. He took her hand and drew it within his 
arm. Prudence had fled*; he was overcome by the 
sweet, dangerous impulses of the moment. 

‘ Let us be friends, Lydia,’ he said softly, and 
with a rare protecting tenderness which became 


64 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


him well, — ‘ dear, true friends, until we can be 
something closer. You must have known for a 
long time how much I have admired and sympa- 
thized with you. We can be a comfort and a help 
to each other while we are in Waveney.’ 

Lydia Bolsover allowed him to retain her hand, 
but she turned her deep, calm eyes full upon his 
face, as if seeking to read his very soul. She 
loved him with a strange, strong, passionate love, 
the first-fruits of her heart; therefore she could 
not say him nay. 

‘ You are certain it is not pity ? I do not need 
pity. I am very well able to fight my own battle,’ 
she said, almost rebelliously. 

‘ Yes, yes ! It is not pity — it is sympathy and 
love you need,’ said Holgate soothingl3% as he 
might have spoken to a child. Then, to his 
astonishment, she burst into tears. What could he 
do then but place an arm about her, and whisper 
sweet words of endearment to her, which were very 
real to him at the moment. 

So Lydia Bolsover threw off her cold reserve, and 
became a warm-hearted, loving woman, — willing to 
place her life in the hands of Denis Holgate, How 
had it come about ? I do not know. We see 
such instances of a strong nature surrendering to 
a weak one — it is one of the mysteries which we 
cannot unravel. It was a curious love-making, — 
a thing undreamed of an hour ago by either, and 
a thing, moreover, which, before another hour went 
by, Avould be regretted by one. Denis Holgate 
was not more touched with love for Lydia Bolsover 


BEYOND RECALL. 


65 


than for any other woman. He was in an excited 
mood ; feeling had gained the mastery, and for 
lack of a little prudence and self-control he had 
woven about his life the meshes of a net from which 
he would find it difficult to escape. Lydia Bolsover 
was in earnest, — she did nothing by halves. 

Holgate was guilty of another indiscretion that 
night ; he confided to the companion of his walk his 
connection with St. Cyrus. Perhaps that was 
scarcely to be wondered at, seeing his mind was 
so full of it ; yet that also would yet occasion him 
the bitterest regret. 

‘ So you are really the son of Mr, Denis Holgate, 
of whom I have often heard my mother speak I ’ 
said Lydia Bolsover in the greatness of her astonish- 
ment. ‘How strange that you should come to 
Waveney, so near St. Cyrus! What do you mean 
to do?’ 

‘Wait in the meantime,’ said Holgate, with an 
affectation of carelessness he did not feel. 

‘Wait! I could not wait,’ said Lydia. ‘Were 
I you, I should go up to St. Cyrus and claim 
relationship with Lady Holgate and Sir Fulke. 
Why not ? They dared not turn you out of your 
own door.’ 

Her eyes flashed ; Holgate was astonished at the 
vehemence with which she spoke. 

‘ It is hardly my door yet,’ he answered dryly. 
‘ Probably they would resent my intrusion.’ 

‘They have not a reputation for amiability 
certainly, but I should glory in their anger, if they 
exhibited anger. They may be very proud, they 
6 


66 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


may be ashamed of you, but if you can prove your 
identity, yours would be the triumph. Is your 
mother alive ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ Why didn’t you bring her here with you ? ’ 

He chafed under her questioning, forgetting that 
he had just given her a certain right to ask what 
she pleased. 

‘ What should I have done with her here ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know. Perhaps it would not have been 
convenient. Have you any sisters ? ’ 

‘ Yes, one.’ 

‘ What is her name ? Is she like you ? ’ 

‘ Her name is Ehoda, and she is not like me,’ he 
answered shortly. 

Lydia became silent then. Her eyes were fixed 
on the ground, her thoughts became a golden web. 
Looking forward, what did she see ? A carriage 
with a coi'onet, and she within it ; Waveney bend- 
ing low before the lady of St. Cyrus. The vision 
pleased Lydia Bolsover. A smile wreathed her 
lips. She lifted her head and looked with shy 
pride into the handsome face by her side. 

‘ One day you and I shall be quits with Waveney,’ 
she said. ‘ You are sure you will not cast me off 
with the other attributes of the old life when the 
time comes for you to enter upon the new ? ’ She 
looked lovely as she uttered these words, her 
fingers pressed lightly the arm to which they’’ clung. 
Remember Holgate’s ignorance of and susceptibility 
to tlie charms of a pretty woman. He was very 
young too, and fancied himself in love. 


BEYOND RECALL. 


67 


‘I shall never do that/ he answered earnestly, 
as a lover ought. ‘Whatever happens, I shall 
always be the same to you.’ 

‘ You will know, at any rate, that it was you I 
cared for and not your position,’ she whispered 
softly, and Holgate stooped and kissed her almost 
passionately. When she became sweet and tender 
she was wholly irresistible. Link by link he 
bound upon himself his chain of bondage. 

‘It will not do to let Waveney see any difference 
in our relations to each other. It is a nest of 
gossip as it is ; we need not give it another tit-bit 
in the meantime,’ he said after a pause. ‘ Do you 
not think so ? ’ 

‘ I am not a fool ; I know Waveney better than 
you,’ Lydia answered shortly. 

‘ Nor your mother, Lydia, though she is a 
most estimable woman,’ continued Holgate a trifle 
nervously. ‘But I fear she could not keep our 
secret.’ 

‘ Our secret shall be kept as long as it is necessary; 
do not fear,’ she said quickly. ‘ I am not a hare- 
brained girl who cannot hold her tongue where a 
man is concerned. I think, whatever my faults, I 
have a little prudence. I know that we must wait 
perhaps years, but I do not mind. My way of life 
has taught me to be patient, not to expect too 
much, but, like Shylock, I hope for my pound of 
flesh some day. I have some accounts to settle in 
Waveney.’ 

Holgate felt uncomfortable in the extreme. 
She spoke quietly, yet with a deliberate bitterness 


68 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


which chilled him. It flashed across him that this 
woman, who might be true and faithful in friend- 
ship or in love, would be a bitter foe. Already he 
wished he had left her in her cold reserve, that he 
had not bridged the barrier between them. 

‘ It may be years, as you say,’ he repeated, but 
did not specify what event was to be thus post- 
poned. ‘ I have a position to make, and I may 
never be any nearer St. Cyrus than I am now. 
My uncle may live for years ; he may even marry, 
and have an heir of his owm.’ 

‘ It might happen, but it is not likely. They 
say he cared for that Indian girl who came home 
to become liis ward ; his brother’s step-child. She 
would have nothing to say to him, and in revenge 
they married her to a man she hated. Poor thing I 
they say she is very unhappy, but she has a great 
position and plenty of means. I confess I know of 
no misery for which these are not an antidote. It 
is degrading to be poor and obscure. There is 
nothing I would not do to attain a position of 
influence.’ 

‘ Yet not long ago, Lydia, you did not turn 
away from me, though you thought me only a poor 
assistant. You are not consistent,’ said Holgate, 
with a laugh. 

‘ No, you are right ; I am notconsistent. Probably 
by to-morrow I should have come to the conclusion 
tliat I was a fool, and should likely have told you 
so,’ she said, smiling. She felt very happy, and 
also elated. 

They were now entering the picturesque village. 


BEYOND RECALL. 


l\g 


She looked about her with a kind of quiet triumph. 
She was the chosen love of the heir of St. Cyrus ; 
what would the jealous, narrow-minded clique, who 
made the humiliations of her life, say to that 
when it became known ? Holgate’s thoughts were 
different. Already he regretted his haste. 

‘ Do you know that never until to-night have I 
been glad that I am a woman,’ she said, and her 
lip trembled. ‘ 1 have hated and despised myself, 
and wished myself anything rather than what I 
am.’ 

‘ And what has wrought the change, Lydia 1 ’ 
Holgate asked, touched by her complete surrender. 

‘ Because I have learned that I am not distaste- 
ful to you. You have raised my self-respect,’ 
she said, and again the brilliant colour dyed her 
cheek. It was marvellous the change love had 
wrought in this girl. Her face was absolutely 
glorified by it. Holgate could not but be proud 
of it, and yet there was an element of doubt, even 
of fear, in his pride. The love he had so lightly 
won, and which perhaps he should not long care to 
keep, would be very exacting, he foresaw. 

He had never yet thought of marriage seriously 
in relation to himself, yet now he was pledged to 
a woman of whom he knew very little. What, 
then, could be the issue? Time alone would 
disclose. 



CHAPTER VI. 

REGRET AND HOPE. 

* Youth hath a restless heart, 

And thinks to drain life’s goblet at a draught.* 


OME in here, Denis ; I wish to speak to 
you,’ said Doctor Dacre, intercepting 
Holgate one evening as he was leaving 
the surgery. 

Holgate followed the doctor into his library 
with a slight feeling of curiosity. His manner was 
kind as usual, but a trifle serious. 

‘ Ay, shut the door,’ he said, when they entered. 
‘ How long have you been with me now ? ’ 

‘ Fifteen months, sir,’ Denis answered. 

‘ So long as that ? ’ said the doctor in mild 
surprise. ‘How the time flies! Well, Denis, I 
think it quite time you made a change.’ 

Holgate reddened a little, fancying he was about 
to receive his dismissal. 

‘ If you have no longer any need for my services. 
Doctor Dacre, of course I must make a change,’ he 
replied stiffly. 

A genial smile shone upon the face of the elder 

TO 




REGRET AND HOPE. 71 

man, and his blue eyes twinkled at the tone of 
offended dignity. 

‘ My need is just as great as it was when you 
came to me,’ he said quietly. ‘But it is time 
you sought an advance on your present position. 
Your abilities are beyond Waveney. Have you 
no desire to rise in your profession ? ’ 

Holgate’s face flushed again, this time with the 
flush of conscious shame. For many months his 
dreams had been of a future in which the work — 
the preparation for which had cost so much — had 
played no part whatever. His friend misunder- 
stood his heightened colour, and hastened to relievo 
his apparent embarrassment. 

‘ I will speak more plainly, Denis,’ he said 
kindly. ‘You have been invaluable to me while 
you have been with me, and have saved me not 
only much hard work, but many an anxious hour. 
Were I to consult my own wishes, believe me, I 
should not be speaking to you now. But I shall 
not be selfish. I know of an opening in which my 
influence might be of considerable use to you. 
I suppose you are quite willing to go, provided 
you are to gain any advantage by it ? ’ 

‘ I am certainly obliged to you. Doctor Dacre,’ 
said Denis Holgate sincerely. ‘ Of course I am 
anxious to rise in the world, and in my profession.’ 

‘ I thought so. I would have been disappointed 
in you otherwise. A young man without ambition 
is a sad spectacle,’ said the doctor, nodding his 
head. ‘Well, an old friend of mine has been in 
practice for many years at Crosshaven, a little 


72 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


fishing village on the coast a few miles from 
Southport. It is a good berth, Denis, for he 
has, I believe, also a consulting practice in 
Southport. I am right in saying his income 
during the last ten years has not been under a 
thousand. lie is an old man now, and not able 
to compass his work even with the aid of an 
assistant. He wants a partner, with a view to 
a successor. We had some talk about you when 
I was down a few weeks ago, and we have had 
some correspondence on the subject since. What 
would you think of a partnership with my 
friend ? ’ 

‘ It would depend on the terms, sir,’ said Ilolgate, 
recalling his mother’s injunctions the last night he 
had spent in Hanbury Lane. 

‘ I have considered that too. You will allow 
me to help you, Denis. It would be a pleasure 
to me.’ 

‘ But, sir, I have no claim upon you.’ 

‘Why not ? I dike you, and you have faithfully 
done your duty while with me. I am a rich man. 
It will cost me no self-denial to advance a few 
hundreds, and you can repay me as circumstances 
allow.’ 

It was the offer of a generous, large-hearted man, 
and Holgate could not but be touched by it. 

‘ If you will allow me. Doctor Dacre, I shall 
communicate with my friends at once,’ he said at 
length. 

‘ Certainly. Is your father living ? ’ 

‘ No, only my mother.’ 


REGRET AND HOPE. 


73 


' Pardon the question, but will circumstances 
enable her to help you ? ' 

‘ I believe so. I think she could give me the 
money.’ 

‘ Ah, well, in that case, of course, I shall not 
press the matter. It is for you and her to settle. 
I wonder you have not brought her down for a 
breath of our fine Waveney air. If you decide to 
go to Crosshaven, no doubt she will make her 
home with you, — that is, unless you marry. By 
the bye, Denis, Mrs. Dacre was telling me only 
yesterday that there is a talk in the place of some 
courting between you and Miss Bolsovcr. Any 
truth in it, eh ? ’ 

‘ Waveney is full of such gossip, sir,’ said Holgate, 
with a laugh. ‘ They have reported my courtship 
about half a dozen times.’ 

‘ Ah, well, you might do worse. She is a prudent, 
good girl, and would make a fine wife for any man. 
Poor thing, she will soon be lonely enough ; the 
old lady can’t possibly outlive the winter. If you 
would like a few days, Denis, to run up and consult 
your mother, you may take them. A thing can be 
so much better discussed verbally than in writing. 
Anyhow, I think you should consider the thing 
favourably. It is a thoroughly good opening, and 
the place is growing as well as its big neighbour 
along the shore. You would find Doctor Radcliffe 
a generous and considerate partner. He is a fine 
old man.’ 

‘ I will think well of it, and I am deeply obliged 
to you, Doctor Dacre,’ repeated Holgate sincerely. 

7 


74 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Tlien they shook hands and parted for the 
night. 

It was now the month of October, and the days 
were short, cold, and dreary ; winter had stolen a 
march upon the earth. A premature storm had 
whirled the leaves from the trees, and they rustled 
under Holgate’s feet as he walked slowly along the 
highway to Ainsborough. It was his tea-hour, 
but he wished to be alone for a little while to 
think out this thing. He knew very well that 
Lydia Bolsover would be waiting for him, watch- 
iug, probably, with these large, calm eyes of hers 
through the drawn curtains of the sitting-room. 
Inch by inch their intimacy had increased, and it 
was Patty who had let out the secret to Waveney. 
She had not been slow to observe the change 
which had gradually crept over the household. 
Mrs. Bolsover was now entirely confined to her 
own room. She slept a great deal, and required 
quiet ; what more natural, then, than that Holgate 
and Miss Bolsover should spend their evenings 
together ? Patty, dull in many things, picked up 
certain signs and understood them quick enough. 
She saw that there was love between her mistress 
and the surgeon. Was it to be expected that she 
should keep such a secret ? It was confided by 
degrees to her mother, who duly, and with a strong 
sense of the importance of her news, imparted it 
to Mrs. Wagram. Mrs. Wagram, having a personal 
dislike to Miss Bolsover, delighted to hear of this 
departure from the customary bounds of her 
prudence. If Miss Bolsover sat alone in the 


REGRET AND HOPE. 


75 


surgeon’s parlour with him in the evenings, she 
argued, she was guilty of indiscretion, and ought 
to he rebuked. Such conduct did not befit one 
who was the guide and pattern to the youth of 
Waveney. Lydia Bolsover knew quite well that 
she and Holgate had become the talk of Waveney, 
but that mattered nothing to her. She was happy 
with a wild, deep, intense happiness, born perhaps 
of the very reserve and self-containedness of her 
nature. She had given her whole heart to Holgate, 
and, though in comparison with her he was a cool 
lover, he as yet satisfied her completely. He 
found her a sympathetic and deeply interested 
companion and listener to his talk, which was apt 
to run in a grandiloquent strain. So matters 
stood seven months after that memorable walk, 
between Eedacre and Waveney. So they stood 
to-night as Holgate reviewed them in his solitary 
walk. The idea of leaving Waveney commended 
itself to him ; he had grown tired of his way of 
life. He had grown tired, too, of the constant 
companionship of Lydia Bolsover. Her adoration 
of him wearied him, thus showing that his heart 
had not awakened in response to hers. She alluded 
at times to the future they were to spend together ; 
he never did. The thought was not pleasant to 
him ; the word wife applied to her had no charm 
or sweetness. In a word, he had grown weary, and 
repented him of his choice. I want to be just to 
Holgate, though his conduct was mean. It was 
rather the fruit of thoughtlessness than of any 
deliberate desire to deceive and make a woman 


76 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


unhappy. He had found the companionship of 
Lydia Bolsover a pleasant change and relief from 
the monotony of his work, and had availed himself 
of it, saying sometimes things which had only 
their being on his lips, though they went to the 
heart of another. He had allowed himself to drift 
with the current of events, and now, when a 
prospect of a change was placed immediately 
before him, he was conscious of an intense feeling 
of relief which was almost gladness. It did not 
occur to him that what he thought of so lightly 
and indifferently might be a matter of life and 
death to the woman with whose heart he had 
played. Holgate’s deepest feelings had never yet 
been touched ; out of his own agony there would 
yet arise a sympathy and compassion for that of 
others. He was yet only on the threshold of life, 
a young man, vain, full of self-glorifications and 
conceits, without any thought of life’s higher mean- 
ings or of manhood’s great and noble aims. He 
had not advanced a step towards that noble life in 
Waveney, yet these months had their uses ; they 
were like some apparently useless, yet really indis- 
pensable parts of his education. 

Occupied with these thoughts, Holgate walked 
steadily along the high road in the gathering twi- 
light until he came within sight of Redacre and the 
dark outline of the St. Cyrus woods in the distance. 
Then his thoughts underwent a change, and St. 
Cyrus, with all its attendant day-dreams, became 
all-absorbing. When he came to the stile which 
gave admittance to the footpath through the 


REGRET AND HOPE. 


77 


grounds, it seemed the most natural thing in the 
world that he should strike into it. As he did so 
he had no definite purpose in his mind, except per- 
haps a stronger desire than usual to look upon the 
old house. The footpath across the meadow merged 
at length into a broad, well-kept walk, intersecting 
the trees which grew so densely in the thicket. 
There were evidences here of Sir Fulke’s greed of 
gold ; some of the noblest trees were felled to the 
ground, and great trunks lay piled side by side 
already marked for sale. Holgate remembered 
Craddock’s words about the heir, and his brow grew 
dark as he looked. He had got the length of 
thinking of the place as his, and he resented the 
fallen timber. Yet how could he interfere or even 
advance the smallest claim to a stick or stone upon 
the place ? By and by he emerged from the wild 
depths of the wood to the well-kept park, which as 
yet had not suffered from Sir Fulke. How majestic 
and noble looked these spreading oaks and elms 
standing like sentinels against the sky, their 
branches scarcely stirring in the still night air ! 
The silence was absolutely oppressive, the soft turf 
sent forth no echo of the solitary stroller’s steps ; 
he felt almost like a thief in the night. Once more 
Denis Holgate found himself within sight of the 
Abbey, its lighted windows shining like stars in 
the darkness. He walked nearer, his heart beating, 
his eyes filled with intense, eager interest. Again 
everything but St. Cyrus was forgotten. As he 
was about to step on to the wide sweep of gravel 
before the ancient doorway, it was thrown open. 


78 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


and a flood of light shone out upon the darkness. 
He saw a man-servant in dark livery peer anxiously 
into the night, and stretch out his hand, probably 
to ascertain whether it rained. Presently the sound 
of wheels broke the stillness, and a carriage was 
driven rapidly round from the direction of the 
stables and drawn up at the door. Holgate drew 
hack into the shadow of the trees, forgetting that 
he was spying upon the actions of others. He saw 
the footman spread a strip of matting from within 
the entrance hall, and immediately an elderly lady, 
closely muffled in wraps, came out and entered 
the carriage. Holgate could see that her figure 
was noble and commanding, he could hear the 
rustle of her silken train as it swept the carriage 
step. The servant stood by the open door a few 
seconds still, and until a second figure appeared ; a 
young lady this time, with a graceful, girlish figure, 
clad in a shimmer of white lace and silk. Her 
wrap hung loosely about her shoulders, her head 
was bare, and as she stepped out the full light from 
the lamp above the door fell upon her face, — a face 
so exquisitely lovely that to Holgate it appeared 
like that of an angel. 

‘ Do hurry, Winifred ! ’ a quick, imperious voice 
said from within the carriage. ‘ We shall certainly 
be late.’ 

‘ Oh no, dear grandmamma ! It will not take 
us an hour to drive to Rokeby,’ the younger lady 
answered back as she stepped into the carriage. 

A moment more, and it was driven rapidly away, 
Laving Holgate feeling like one in a dream. He 


REGRET AND HOPE. 79 

could not recall one feature of that face, hut its 
expression was indelibly engraven on his heart. It 
was one of unspeakable sadness. What did it 
mean ? What dark shadow had fallen across this 
young life on its sweet threshold ? Why should 
such a fair young creature wear an expression of 
deep and anxious care ? Could this be the orphan 
whose guardians had so poorly fulfilled their trust ? 
Holgate was devoured with curiosity. He seemed 
to be in an unreal world, full of phantoms which 
he perpetually pursued. He seemed to live two 
lives, even to have two personalities. When the 
carriage had disappeared in the dark shadows of 
the avenue, he stepped from his shelter and 
boldly approached the open door. He hardly 
knew what he wished or purposed. He was 
standing in the full glare of light, looking with 
deep interest into the magnificent entrance hall, 
the pride and glory of St. Cyrus, when the foot- 
man, stepping out to shut the door, caught sight 
of him. 

‘ Hulloa ! ’ he said brusquely ; but, observing that 
the intruder wore the garb and had the appearance 
of a gentleman, he touched his forelock. ‘ Beg 
parding, sir : I took you for one as had no business 
’ere. What can I do for you % ’ 

Holgate was a trifle confused, but succeeded in 
regaining his composure. 

‘ Can I see Sir Fulke Holgate ? ’ he asked, and, 
being inwardly excited, his voice took rather a 
nervous tone. 

‘I’ll see. If you’ll step this way, sir. I’ll tell 


8o 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Sir Fulke, lie’s at dinner. I Hope you can wait 
a minute or so ? ’ 

‘ Surely.’ 

* Then step this way, sir, if you please.’ 

Holgate followed the man across the hall and up 
the broad, richly-carpeted steps to the first floor. 
He was curiously calm, though he felt that he had 
reached a crisis whose issues might change the 
whole current of his existence. He was shown into 
the library, which had only one dim shaded lamp 
burning on an antique marble centre table. It 
only served to heighten the sombre gloom of that 
magnificent and noble room, the finest in the 
Abbey. Holgate’s feet sank in the rich, soft pile 
of the Persian rugs scattered over the polished 
floor. He felt awed ; a sense of smallness and 
insignificance stole upon him. The place was so 
great, so imposing, so different from anything he 
had ever seen ! Even here Hanbury Lane came to 
the front. How painful, how absurd in the might of 
its contrast did that poor home seem to him now I 

‘ What name shall I say, sir?’ asked the man, 
lingering at the door. 

Holgate started. 

‘ Oh, no name. Simply say that a gentleman 
wishes to see Sir Fulke at his leisure.’ 

The man bowed, and closed the door. 

Holgate said, ‘ at his leisure,’ but he hoped that 
his time for thought would be short. He had 
placed himself in an extraordinary position, he had 
an ordeal of no common kind to face. Yet he was 
curiously calm. He walked leisurely about the fine 


REGRET AND HOPE. 


8i 


old room, drinking in every detail. The volumes 
which lined the shelves from ceiling to floor were 
priceless, he knew, and the other articles rare and 
valuable of their kind. He even fingered the mag- 
nificent silk hangings at the wide windows, and 
looked with interest at the quaint brass clock and 
candelabra above the superb fireplace. Nothing 
escaped his eye. His interest was that of one who 
feels a right in what the eye falls upon. Only one 
very slender barrier stood between him and his. 
He was thus occupied when the door was abruptly 
opened, and some one entered. Holgate was at 
the far end of the room, and he turned round, 
feeling the hot blood surging through his veins. 
In the intensity of his excitement his lip even 
quivered. Nevertheless he endeavoured to com- 
mand himself, and advanced towards the middle of 
the room, where the lamp shone upon the polished 
surface of the marble table. There he found him- 
self face to face with Sir Fulke Holgate, ninth 
baronet of St. Cyrus. He was a tall, spare, 
attenuated figure, attired in half dress, a black 
velvet jacket and vest. His face was dark and 
sallow, with high cheek-bones and piercingly keen 
blue eyes. The heavy masses of his reddish-brown 
hair were carefully arranged above his high white 
brow. He was a striking-looking man, though not 
handsome, an aristocrat without doubt, carrying it 
in every movement, in the very gesture of his long, 
thin, white hand, as it lightly touched the table, 
while with a very slight bow he looked inquiringly 
at the stranger. 


82 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ Sir, what can I do for you ? ’ he said in 
indolent tones, which had a touch of hautt^ur. ' 

Denis Holgate’s tongue seemed to cleave to the 
roof of his mouth. He began to tremble in every 
limb. Sir Fulke saw his agitation, and pointed to 
a chair. 

‘Pray be seated,’ he said courteously, though 
not cordially ; then he repeated the question, ‘ What 
can I do for you ? ’ 

‘ My name is Holgate,’ faltered the surgeon at 
length, — ‘ Denis Holgate.’ 

As he spoke his confidence returned. He drew 
himself up and fixed his eye calmly on the unruffled 
countenance of Sir Fulke. 

‘ Well, Mr. Holgate, what can I do for you ? ’ 
repeated Sir Fulke, without the slightest change in 
his expression or voice. 

‘ I am the son of your brother. Sir Fulke. I am 
your nephew, Denis Holgate.’ 

A peculiar gleam shot through the cold eyes of 
Sir Fulke, and a slow and chilling smile crept up 
to his long, thin mouth. 

‘ Well, what more, my young friend ? Say what 
you have to say. My dessert is waiting me in the 
dining-room.’ 

‘ I live in Waveney. I have been there for more 
than a year. I have often come up here ; but only 
to-night did I find courage to come in. You must 
believe me. Sir Fulke. I can prove my identity 
though you look so incredulous.’ 

Sir Fulke turned leisurely upon his heel and 
pulled the bell-rope beside the fireplace. In an 


REGRET AND HOPE. 


83 


instant the servant entered the room, looking 
scared, for the summons had been unusually loud. 

* Show this person down-stairs, Evans,’ he said 
calmly, and, without further word or look to IIol- 
gate, passed before them out of the room and 
returned to finish his dessert. 




CHAPTER VIL 

*HIS LITTLE LASS-* 

* Two travellers in life’s way ; 

One tottering greyly on the brink 
Of the hereafter. The other sweet and young, 
With childhood’s sunshine on her golden head, 
And childhood’s love and trust within her soul ’ 


LOW wind was sobbing on the marshes, 
out at sea there were little crests of foam 
on the waves, the sky ivas lowering down 
long before the darkening, a cloud hung 
heavily over Lytham and St. Ann’s, but a clear 
still brightness crept out from the ragged fringes on 
the western horizon and touched Crosshaven with a 
solemn and exquisite light. It was the afternoon 
of a bleak March day, and a storm was brewing 
on the sea. The ait was keen and cold, the low 
wind had a biting edge which might almost chill 
the marrow in one’s boneSi Captain Silas felt its 
bitter touch as he sat on the oak settle by his 
kitchen fire, toasting his muffin for tea. ‘ Sure 
it’s cowd for March, but I mun leave the dur oppen, 
if nobbut for my little lass,’ he said to himself, 
and a smile came upon his weather-beaten face like 

S4 



'll/s LITTLE lass: 


8S 


a glcnm from the setting sun. ITe made a fine 
picture, the old man in his fisherman’s garb, kneeling 
by the quaint fireplace attending to his own simple 
wants. His sou-wester was pushed back from his 
furrowed forehead and revealed the thick masses of 
his iron-grey hair. Ilis great shoulders, once so 
square and proudly carried, were bent wdth the load 
of seventy years. When presently he rose to butter 
his muffin, he walked with a slow, stiff, cautious step. 
Silas Rimmer was past his best. And what a best 
that must have been ! what strength and firmn ss 
and fearless energy must that noble frame, that 
brave, unflinching eye have once displayed ! Silas 
Rimmer had spent his life upon the sea, and, while 
loving it as a child, had treated it like a servant, 
making it subservient to his will. Man)'' a tale of Ids 
marvellous daring was told of a night by the firesides, 
not only in Crosshaven, but all along the coast. 
They said that the lives Captain Silas, as he was 
familiarly called, had saved were not to be numbered. 
Not only a brave man this old sea-beaten captain, 
but a good and a pure and a true, with a heart and 
soul as pure and as simple as those of a little child. 
His fighting days were done, and, like his own boat, 
the Lucy Wright, lying high and dry on the sand- 
hills, he was almost into port. He lived alone in 
the little whitewashed thatched cottage on the top 
of the marshes, with no women-folk about him, but 
though he was alone he was not lonely. He was by 
nature cheerful and happy ; the sorrow of his youth, 
which had snatched his three weeks’ bride from him, 
had neither made him a morose nor a melancholy 


86 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


man. He was loved in Crosshaven with a great 
love, which was very precious to him, though he 
said so little about it. He was the children’s friend, 
and the particular friend of one particular little 
child, for whom, indeed, he was waiting that very 
afternoon, and for whom the door had been left 
open in all weathers since ever she had been able 
to toddle down the slope to the cottage. 

It was a quaint old-world corner the kitchen in 
the home of Captain Silas. The walls were white- 
washed, and hung with many curious things 
whereat the children were wont to gaze and 
marvel. A whale’s tusk here, the skeleton of a 
queer fish there, stufied birds innumerable, nautical 
charts, prints of sea-pieces, old fishing-lines, figure- 
heads supported on roughly-carved brackets : such 
were the adornments of the place. The floor was 
laid with brick of a warm red colour, the roof was 
composed of solid oaken rafters, the furnishings 
were simple and plain — a deal table, two chairs, 
an old-fashioned oak settle, and a bed in the 
corner sufficed for Captain Silas. But in this place 
he was as happy as a king. He did not fret that 
he was old and past work, that he must now be 
an idler at home, and wait with the women, when 
.strong men were required on the raging sea. Per- 
haps that was the hardest, but he could thank God 
for many a brave night’s work vouchsafed him in 
the past, and pray for a blessing on those who 
were young and strong. A beautiful spiiit this, 
and one not easy of cultivation, therefore beyond 
price. It was a sight to see him butter the 


* HIS LITTLE lass: 87 

muffin, holding it so carefully in his big brown 
hand, which bore the mark of many a bruise. 

‘ Half-past four — the little lass’s by hoo’s toime,’ 
he said, as the old clock rung the half-hour. Just 
then a shadow fell athwart the doorway, and a 
shrill, sweet, childish voice fell upon his happy ear. 

‘ Are you in. Captain Silas ? ’ 

‘ Ov coorse, my little lass ; coom in, coom in. 
Thou’s late to-neet ; I feared, my precious, that I’d 
need to take tea without somebry.’ 

‘ I was sitting with papa. Captain Silas, and 
helping mamma keep baby. Oh dear, he %8 so 
cross 1 ’ said the little lady, heaving a prodigious 
sigh as she perched herself contentedly on the 
settle, while Captain Silas proceeded to put sugar 
in the tea-cups. 

It was a pretty sight to see the dainty little 
thing in that rude place, and to see how very much 
at home she was, and how content and happy. 
She was a mite of a creature, a little girl of eight, 
slender — very slender — and pale and fragile, with 
large, earnest eyes looking out from a sweet mass 
of golden curls. Not an ordinary child, it was 
easy to see, but one of those old-fashioned, pre- 
cocious, world-wise creatures whom we watch and 
yearn over with a fearful yearning ; one of those 
who probe deep into things from which childhood 
should be far removed ; in a w'ord, a guest, not a 
dweller upon the earth. Already Daisy Frew, the 
little daughter of the curate-in-charge at Cross- 
haven, had turned her face towards her home, and 
it was not on earth. Captain Silas knew it, and 


88 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


one other. A little cough shook her as she 
stretched out her chilled hands to Captain Silas’s 
cheerful fire, and the old man’s eye shadowed as he 
saw the quick bright flush rise to the sweet pale 
cheek. He saw, too, that she was not warmly clad, 
but had run down with only a little loose scarf 
above her pinafore. Had little Daisy, then, no 
mother % Yes, but we shall see. 

‘ How nice your muffins are, and your tea ! but 
I must have it very weak, please ; papa says so,’ 
she said. ‘ How far can we walk to-night. Captain 
Silas. Is it wet on the marshes ? ’ 

She spoke with the grave precision and correct- 
ness of a much older person ; indeed, her manner 
and bearing were touched with a certain dignity 
and repose not common in a child. 

‘Nawe, my precious, it’s as dry as furze, and 
we’ll walk as far as thou’rt able,’ said the Captain 
gravely. ‘ Theer’s a foine storm cornin’ up fra 
th’ east. Miss Daisy. It’ll be a stiff one, or I’m 
nawe judge. There’ll be nawe more walkin’ for 
thee an’ me for a week, fur sure.’ 

‘ That’s bad ; but I’ll come down and you’ll tell 
me stories. Captain Silas, won’t you ? Don’t you 
wish the sunny days were here again, so that we 
might go out to the sandbanks with Jerry for the 
cockles ? ’ 

‘ They’ll coom, my lass, in their own toime. 
Jerry’s gettin’ lazy,’ said the Captain, with a sly 
twinkle in his eye. ‘ I had my hands as full as a 
fitch wi’ him to-day, I tell thee. I had him at 
Southport this mornin’ for some errands, an’ what 


^JIIS LITTLE lass: 


89 


does the chap do but lays him down i’ th’ road, 
panniers an’ all. Theer wur eggs among other 
things, so thou can imagine, lass, that it wur a 
pretty pickle.’ 

‘Oh, what a funny Jerry, Captain Silas!’ cried 
Daisy, with a kind of sober glee. ‘ Where is he 
to-day ? I haven’t seen his dear, funny, rough old 
face for so long.’ 

‘ He’s on th’ marsh or th’ sand-hills. He goos all 
over jist loike a human cretur. He knaws his way 
whoam, my lass, ivvry bit as well as thou,’ said 
the Captain, with a smile of affection for the absent 
Jerry. ‘ Well nawe, my precious, if thou’s ready, 
we mun be goin’, or it’ll be dark, an’ t’ parson 
doesn’t like thee to be out later nor dusk.’ 

‘ I am quite ready. Captain Silas ; but mayn’t I 
help put the tea-things away ? ’ 

‘ Nawe, nawe. I’ll do that when I coom whoam. 
It’ll keep me in amusement. Come, then, how 
shall we goo to-neet ? Eound by th’ Lucy Wright 
an’ back by th’ “ Boot an’ Shoe,” eh ? ’ 

‘ If you please, Captain Silas.’ 

So the pair left the cottage together, Captain 
Silas leaving his door on the latch. There were no 
thieves in Crosshaven, and if there had, I believe 
they would not have meddled with a stick or a 
stone pertaining to Silas Rimmer. The old man 
and the child went hand in hand down the rough, 
narrow way, and climbed to the high path which 
led straight through the marshes to the shore. It 
was a bleak picture that grey wintry afternoon, 
the long desolate stretch of the marshes hemmed 


90 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


in by the low sand-hills, on which the coarse sea- 
grass, which made a greenness in the summer, had 
been bleached by the long winter. The tide was 
far out ; in the haze of the gathering niglit its edge, 
with a fringe of foam, was just visible playing 
stealthily about the sandbanks. It was a grey 
day ; there was nothing to relieve the general 
depression of earth and sea and sky, except the 
white walls and the red roofs of the Haven, and 
away to westward the roofs and steeples of South- 
port. 

It was a desolate scene, I say, yet not without 
its own weird, silent beauty, a certain rugged and 
deep charm all its own. The deep-set eyes of 
Captain Silas swept the wide prospect with his 
usual keen interest. It was never unlovely, never 
uninteresting to him ; perhaps because it was the 
most familiar scene on the face of the earth to him. 
The child Daisy looked about her with interest too, 
and her face clouded a little, as if a sadness, born 
of the prevailing gloom, had settled down upon her 
soul.^ 

‘ I don’t see Jerry, Captain Silas. Can he be 
lost ? ’ 

‘Lost — Jerry lost !’ laughed the Captain softly. 
‘ That ’ud be a queer thing, my little lass. Lost — 
Jerry lost ! Not he ! Cannot thou see his honest 
face an’ his long ears thonder beyant the beacon.’ 

‘ Oh yes, I see him now. We shall go round 
there. Captain Silas, and speak to him. Do you 
think this is a nice day, Captain Silas? Isn’t it 
cold and dark ? ’ 


^ HIS LITTLE LASS.’ 


91 


‘Ay, it is, my precious, an’ thou’s not gotten 
enoof on by hauve,’ said the old man, with solicitaule. 

‘ Thou mun promise me. Miss Daisy, to put thy 
cloak about thee next time thou cooms for thy 
walk. We cannot spare thee from the Haven.’ 

‘ What do you mean by that. Captain Silas ? I 
am not going away from the Haven, am I ? ’ 

‘ 1 hope nawe, my precious,’ said the Captain, 
and a solitarj'^ tear rose in his honest eye. 

‘ Mamma says I must go to boarding-school soon. 
I shouldn’t like that. Captain Silas, to be away from 
papa, and you, and Cicely, and the baby.’ 

It was noticeable that the child did not name 
her mother among those whom it would pain her 
to leave. 

‘ Thou’s nobbut a mite and a baby thyself yet. 
Miss Daisy. Whoam ’s t’ bit for thee for mony a 
year yet,’ said the Captain. ‘Here’s t’ Lucy 
Wright. She’s breakin’ up, poor owd lass, like 
my sen.’ 

He alluded to the old boat in which he had 
made many a voyage as he might have alluded to 
a human being whom he loved. She lay now keel 
upward on the sandy grass bank above the break- 
water in which she had been wont to sit at anchor 
so proudly in the days of long ago, when Captain 
Silas and the Lucy Wright had been the most 
active members of the Haven community. He 
laid his big rough hand tenderly on her weather- 
beaten timbers, and Daisy, moved to a like 
sympathy, laid her tiny fingers caressingly beside 
the Captain’s. 


92 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ ]\Iany’s tlie time me an’ th’ owd lass Las getten 
a good haul an’ weathered a tough storm i’ th’ 
Channel, Miss Daisy,’ said he, with a tender, regret- 
ful pride which was a very touching thing, — ‘ me 
an’ th’ Lucy Wright. Ay, ay, I mind the neet 
my own Lucy Wright christened her.’ 

‘ Had you two boats called the Lucy Wright, 
Capdain Silas ?’ 

‘ Nawe, my lass ; but once, many a year before 
thou wur born, I had a wife called Lucy Wright. 
Con thou see the big sandbank yonder, Miss Daisy, 
jist out from Marshside ? ’ 

‘Yes, Captain Silas.’ 

‘ She was theer one foggy neet watchin’ for me 
an’ th’ boat, an’ the tide came in aboot her, an’ the 
fog closed round her, an’ she couldn’t get th’ way 
whoam, an’ I nivver seed her noan more,’ said the 
Captain, in a low, shaking voice, which the child 
had never heard before. 

‘ Was she drowned. Captain Silas ? ’ 

‘ Ay, drowned at our own door, an’ me an’ th’ 
owd boat not hauve a mile off.’ 

‘ Captain Silas,’ — -the child’s hand timidly and 
with rare sympathy touched his once more, — ‘ don’t 
you think the sea a very cruel thing ? It kills 
people, oh, so many ! Do you love it very 
much ? ’ 

‘ I connot tell, my lass, but I think I mun, for I 
never feel »so gradely at whoam anywheer else. 
But that wur a cruel thing. It wur a dark day 
for me that, my precious. I connot think on it 
yet without a quaking. But it wur th’ Lord’s will. 


'HIS LITTLE lass: 


93 


for sure, an’ th’ toime’s near when I’ll see my Lucy 
Wright ; it connot be long noo.’ 

‘Are you going away from the Haven soon, 
Captain Silas ? ’ 

The child’s voice was wistful, her earnest eyes 
had a touch of pain as they dwelt upon the rugged 
face of her dear old friend. 

‘ Some day, my lass, when t’ Lord’s time 
cooms, I mun goo. I’m breakin’ up loike t’ owd 
lass, an’ mun get into port.’ 

‘ Don’t go till I go, Captain Silas,’ said the child 
simply, and without thought that there might be 
anything prophetic in her words. They startled 
the Captain, and reminded him that they were 
lingering too long in the chill night air. 

‘ We mun goo, my precious. T’ parson ’ud take 
my head off for keepin’ thee stonin’ here. Coom, 
let’s seek after that brute ov a Jerry.’ 

So saying, he clasped the hand of his little 
companion closely in his spacious palm, and they 
took their way briskly together along the marsh, 
keeping close by the edge of the breakwater, where 
the fishing-boats drifted lazily, waiting for the 
incoming tide. They chatted pleasantly as they 
went, the child questioning mostly, he answering 
in good faith, as anxious to give information as 
she was to seek it. It would be hard to say which 
found these evening strolls pleasantest ; they were 
real joys in the life of both the old man and the 
little child. The Haven folks had grown accustomed 
to seeing the two solitary figures wandering about 
the marshes and the shore, in the clear evening 


94 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


light, and would smile to each other at ‘ t’ Captain 
an’ his little lass.’ By and by they came up with 
Jerry, the Captain’s donkey, who carried the load of 
cockles from the sandbanks to the village, and was 
as great a favourite in the Haven as his master. 
He was very ugly, painfully homely even for a 
donkey, but he was fat and good-natured and well 
cared for, and could afford to be perfectly indifferent 
to his personal appearance. His broad face, how- 
ever, had a singular intelligence upon it, and when 
he pricked up his ears he had quite a knowing 
look, which was very comical. His shaggy coat 
was generally matted with the sand, and his 
sides were quite bare with the cockle sacks rub- 
bing against them. But he was a good, useful 
donkey, and as the Captain was very fond of 
him, it behoved Daisy to be fond of him 
likewise. 

When they went on again, after patting and 
talking to Jerry, he followed contentedly up behind, 
evidently of opinion that it was time for him to be 
home also. 

Cicely Sutton, the landlady of the ‘ Boot and 
Shoe,’ stepping out after tea for a look at the sky, 
saw the trio coming leisurely across from the sand- 
hills to the village, and a smile grew broader on 
her broad, comfortable face. There seemed always 
a smile more or less about Cicely’s mouth and 
lurking in her clear, kind grey eye ; you could not 
imagine her cross or out of sorts. She had a large, 
comfortable person too, and her every movement 
was suggestive of good natui'e and goodwill. When 


^ BIS LITTLE lass: 


95 


you looked at Cicely Sutton you did not at all 
wonder at the popularity of the ‘ Boot and Shoe.’ 
It was a quaint little hostelry, in which the wayfarer 
could throw himself on the old oak settle by tlie 
wide fireplace, and drink Cicely’s famous tea in 
real, solid comfort. There was no taproom, nor 
even a bar in the ‘ Boot and Shoe ; ’ it was a homely 
hostelry of the old-world type, in which one could 
feel welcome and heartily at home. It being about 
tea-time in the village, there was no one on the 
settle but Sutton himself, enjoying his evening 
pipe after his work was done. The inn belonged 
to Cicely now, and her husband took nothing to do 
with the management. He had his own work to 
attend to, his occupation being that of a carrier, 
and he would sometimes say, in his slow, dry way 
that he was only a lodger at the ‘ Boot and Shoe.’ 
But though he had not his wife’s active, bustling, 
cheerful temper, he could hold his own, and on the 
whole they were a happy, well-matched pair. They 
were childless, a grief to Cicely, whose heart was a 
big motherly one, as every child in the Haven 
knew. 

‘Jist come here, Sutton, or look out by the 
window,’ said Cicely, putting her head round the 
kitchen door. 

‘ What is’t, owd lass ? ’ asked Sutton lazily. 

‘ Oh, th’ Cap’n an’ his little lass an’ Jerry, ov 
coorse. It’s a sight to see the two o’ them — it is 
indeed. They’ll be coomin’ in, loikely. I mun git 
a slice o’ cake for Miss Daisy.,’ 

So saying. Cicely bustled into the kitchen, and 


96 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


took a large tempting-looking spiced loaf from the 
wall cupboard. 

‘ Theer’s a storm brewin’, Sutton. I see by the 
seafowls screaming all over the marshes,’ she said. 

‘ I wish it ’ud coom an’ be done wi’ it. I say, I 
wonder how th’ parson’s wife ’ll loike the thowt o’ 
th’ Eectory being let to strangers.’ 

‘ She’ll ha’ to loike it. T’ Eectory ain’t hers, 
lass,’ was Sutton’s comment, as he indolently 
watched the blue smoke from his pipe curling up 
to the oaken rafters. ‘ She won’t loike it. She’ll 
be in a ragin’ passion.’ 

‘ Well, it does seem a mean thing for th’ rector 
to do ; but for sure it’ll be his wife’s doin’,’ said 
Cicely. ‘ Th’ parson himsel’ mun feel a bit sore 
at th’ way he’s passed ower. Theer wur nowt to 
hinder them fra’ livin’ at th’ Eectory when the 
rector’s away. Nobbut Mrs. Frew connot keep her 
own little corner tidy, so how could she do wi’ sich 
a house as th’ Eectory ? ’ 

‘ How you women peck at each other!’ said Sutton, 
with his slow, dry smile. ‘ I could bet, noo, th’ 
parson’s wife con keep house as well as thou con.’ 

‘ I jist wish thou had a trial o’ her, my mon,’ 
said Cicely quietly. ‘ Theer ’ud be squally weather, 
I doubt, in th’ “Boot an’ Shoe.” Well, if they 
han’t gone away t’other way,’ she added, going out 
to the door again. ‘ It’s time th’ little lass wur 
whoam out o’ the cowd. I dursay we’ll ha’ the 
Cap’n as he comes back.’ 

She surmised rightly. Having seen the little 
companion of his walk to the door of her father’s 


‘ms LITTLE LASS' 


97 


house, the Captain came briskly down the lane, and 
entered Cicely’s kitchen. 

‘ Good evenin’ both. A cowd raw neet this,’ he 
said briskly. 

Sutton nodded, and made room on the settle, 
while Cicely went for a glass of ale. 

‘ I watched tho an’ th’ little lass coomin’ by the 
sand-hills, an’ ran to cut a bit o’ cake fur her, but 
thou’s gin me th’ slip. How’s th’ world usin tho, 
Cap’n Silas ? ’ 

. ‘ As well’s ever. Hoo’s tho gettin’ on. Cicely ? ’ 

■ Th’ same owd way, Cap’n, an’ Sutton’s th’ same 
owd man. Jist see him lounging there as if he’d 
broken his back wi’ his hard work. Gie me men- 
folk for knowin’ hoo to be good to tlmrsel’s.’ 

Sutton grunted, and winked to the Captain in his 
slow way, as much as to say, ‘ Listen to her now.’ 

‘ I’ve news for tho, Cap’n ; th’ Rectory’s let to 
some folks fra Southport, an’ they’ll be here in no 
time. The servants are to coom up to-morrow.’ 

‘Ay, ay, ’at’ll be some’at for Haven folks to 
sharpen their tongues wi’.’ 

‘ Ay is it, Cap’n. Cicely’s been sharpenin’ hers on 
it sin’ ever she got th’ bit o’ news fra Joss o’ Peter 
Wright’s up at th’ mill. He wur bringin’ flour here, 
an’ he brings th’ news, reet or wrang. Cicely’s 
swallowed it, as women-folk do wi’ their eyes shut.’ 

‘ You shut thy mouth, Sutton, an’ let me get 
word o’ th’ Cap’n. Hast seen th’ new doctor, Cap’n 
Silas \ ’ 

‘ Ay, twice, ridin’ on th’ road. A manly, well- 
loike chap. Cicely.’ 


9 


98 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ Ay is he. A tall, strappin’, handsome chap, 
Cap’n Silas. If his inside be as fair as his outside, 
he’ll cut out th’ owd man. What do tho’ think 
but that he comes fra Waveney, where my sister 
Mary Anne, as married Bolsover th’ attorney, lives.’ 

‘ There’ll be a letter followin’ up from Mary Anne 
wi’ a’ th’ latest news about th’ chap — who he’s 
cworted an’ who he hasn’t. It wur a pity, wurn’t 
it, Cap’n, ’at he knawed any o’ Cicely’s folk,’ said 
Sutton, with a grin. 

‘ Hear him, Cap’n Silas,’ cried Cicely, with a 
laugh. ‘ As if men-folk didn’t like a bit o’ talk as 
well’s a woman. But they doan’t think. If they’d 
nobbut listen to thirsens ’at meets here some- 
toimes ; sich a din an’ clatter, an’ turnin’ their 
neighbours inside out. There’s nowt wrang wi’ 
’at, I suppose, though it’s a deadly sin for a woman 
to turn ower a bit o’ news in a kindly spirit.’ 

‘ Hear, hear. Cicely I Thou’s getten th’ right 
way,’ said the Captain, clapping his hand on the 
table. ‘ Theer’s noan harm in a bit kindly gossip. 
If we live among folk it’s natur’ for us to talk o’ them. 
There’s nothing wrang wi’ ’at. It’s the spiteful 
wicked talk which mak’s t’ worst o’ folk’s failin’s 
that’s wrang ; at least t’at’s my way o’ thinkin’.’ 

‘ An’ mine,’ nodded Cicely. ‘ I say, Cap’n, the 
little lass is gettin’ too owd and world-wise like. 
I’m afeard sometimes when I look at her. There’s a 
some’at in her big eyes ’at goes to mi heart like, and 
mak’s me like to cry. Is hoo weel, think tho ? ’ 

A s iadow fell across the cheerful sunshine on 
the face of Captain Silas. 


•If/S LITTLE lass: 


99 


‘ It goos to mi heart, Cicely, to hear thee say 
that, tho’ I see it my sen, I see it my sen.’ 

‘ She an’t keered for, that’s how it goos,’ said 
Sutton. ‘Th’ parson’s wife’s no moore use than 
t’at table, nor so much. She wur always a useless, 
silly thing all her days. I’ve knawn her since 
she was so high.’ 

‘ She isn’t like th’ parson, bless un ! ’ said Cicely, 
and a tear stood in her eye. And somehow it was 
as if a discord had jarred upon their cheerful talk, 
and very soon Captain Silas rose and said he would 
have to go and get Jerry housed for the night. 
Cicely followed him to the door. 

‘ If anything took th’ little lass, Cap’n Silas, th’ 
parson ’ud never howd up his bead again.’ 

‘ Nor any o’ us, Cicely. Hoo’s our little lass as 
well as his’n.’ 

‘ Ay, that hoo is. I guess it ’ud be no use askin’ 
the Lord to spare her. Hoo’s getten His mark on 
her face. Hoo wur in here yesterday, an’ when 
hoo wur gone, I just said to Sutton, “Miss Daisy 
an’t long for this world.”’ 

The Captain slowly shook his head and walked 
away down the street. He paused once or twice, 
and looked upon the ground as if absorbed in deep 
thought. By the time he reached the cottage 
Jerry was waiting at the gate. And just then the 
first drops of the storm came pattering down, and 
the wind rose with a sudden gusty shriek, and in 
half an hour the fury of a winter’s storm had burst 
upon the Haven, 



CHAPTER VIII. 

THE CURATE IN, CHARGE. 

*A little rift within the lute.’ 

HE fire had gone out in the study. The 
curate, sitting at his table with writing 
materials before him, glanced at the dead 
embers and shivered as he tried once again 
to apply himself to his task. It was a task that 
wintry afternoon ; of late Gilbert Frew had found 
less joy than of yore in his chosen work. Outward 
circumstances were telling upon the man ; his heart 
was growing chilled by the frosts of life. The 
curat6 in charge at Crosshaven had need of an 
exceptional faith ; the demands upon it were 
serious and many. The place in which he sat, 
called by courtesy the study, was a cheerless place 
enough. The furniture was poor and plain, and, 
being ill-kept and even dirty, it had a meagre, 
miserable look. The square of carpet in the middle 
of the floor was worn quite threadbare, and looked 
dusty, besides being littered with scraps of paper, 
ends of thread, and crumbs. The atmosphere of 
the room was close and heavy, and smelt of 





THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 


lOI 


cobwebs and dust and lack of air. Certainly the 
curate’s surroundings were not calculated to infuse 
much warmth into his soul. , His attire corre- 
sponded with the general shabbiness, but one 
glance at Gilbert Frew was sufficient to assure one 
that he was a gentleman. There was a certain 
dignity and even grace in the tall, spare, slightly- 
rounded figure, and the face was wholly winning. 
If any fault could be found with that finely- 
moulded countenance, it was that it lacked decision 
and manliness. The deep grey eyes were gentle 
and sad, the mouth sweet and mobile like a 
woman’s. It was a sad face. There dwelt upon 
it an expression of patience, of saintly sweetness 
not natural to any human face. Such a look is 
bought by hard experience, and is worn, as a rule, 
at serious cost. It is a look more common on the 
faces of women than of men in this world. 

Darkness had stolen upon him while he lingered 
idly at his desk, with the open Bible before him, 
and his pen in his hand. He had not even chosen 
a text, and it was Friday evening. Gilbert Frew 
could only now write his sermons under the strain 
of haste and dire necessity. It was a common 
thing for him to sit far into the Sabbath morning 
preparing his work for the day. They said in 
Crosshaven that for a time back Mr. Frew had 
been more eloquent than in the first years of his 
ministrations. They did not know that the words 
which were with such power among them were the 
result of pressure upon heart and head which 
could not possibly go on. Such a state of things 


103 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


showed that there must be care of no ordinary kind 
sapping the springs of hope and energy in tlie 
curate’s being. We may be permitted a glimpse 
into his home. Perhaps we may find there the 
primary cause. His reverie, if indeed it was a 
reverie, was interrupted presently by a low, light 
tap at the door. It was the child Daisy, returned 
from her evening walk with Captain Silas. 

‘ May I come in, dear papa ? ’ 

A smile, very rare and very beautiful, immediately 
dawned upon the curate’s face. 

‘ Come in, my darling, to be sure,’ he answered, 
and there was a perceptible tone of relief in his 
voice. 

Instantly the door was gently opened, carefully 
closed again, and the child stole lightly across the 
floor and climbed upon her father’s knee. She 
laid her arms about his neck, her cheek to his, and 
so they sat in silence for a time. It was easy to 
see the love which was between them, a love far 
surpassing the ordinary affection between parent 
and child. These two were suflicient one to the 
other. 

‘ Tea is ready, papa. I have been at Captain 
Silas’s, and had mine with him, out of the funny 
little teapot with the fish carved on it. Then we 
walked along the marsh to see Jerry. Oh, papa, 
such a funny, naughty Jerry he was to-day. He 
tumbled all Captain Silas’s errands on the road 
and broke all the eggs, every one.’ 

‘ Which shows that Jerry has a dignity of his 
own, and objects to being inade Jack of all trades. 


THE CUE ATE IN CHARGE. 103 

I daresay he thinks his legitimate business is to 
carry the cockle baskets,’ answered the curate, 
with his quiet smile. 

‘ How cold it is out to-day, papa ! Captain Silas 
says there is a storm coming up.’ 

‘Were you cold out of doors, Daisy?’ 

‘ A little, papa.’ 

‘ And are you tired with your walk ?’ 

There was keen and affectionate solicitude in 
these questions which indicated an anxious heart. 

‘A little, papa, but not more than usual. I 
think you are very tired, dear papa, writing your 
sermon. Is it quite finished ? ’ 

‘ Not even begun, my darling.’ 

‘ Oh, you naughty, lazy papa. I think you 
should not have any tea for being so lazy.’ 

‘That would be a punishment. Come, then, 
and see what mamma says to it. What stories 
did the Captain tell you to-day ? ’ 

‘Oh, a sad story, papa, about Lucy Wright, his 
wife. She was drowned, papa, in the fog on the 
sandbank watching for Captain Silas and the 
Lucy Wright. Wasn’t that a bad thing, papa? ’ 

The child’s large, earnest eyes were full of pain 
as she spoke. The thing had laid hold of her 
heart ; she would never forget it. It was her 
nature to brood and ponder such things in her soul, 
a strange and undesirable habit for a child. 

‘ I have heard the story, Daisy. It was before I 
came to the Haven.’ 

‘ Yes, it was long ago ; but Captain Silas does 
not forget. It makes him sad yet. He cried 


104 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


when he told me to-day, standing by the old 
boat.’ 

‘ Did he, dear ? No doubt it was a great sorrow 
to him,’ said the curate dreamily, and taking the 
child’s hand in his he crossed the little hall, and 
entered the sitting-room, where tea was laid, and 
the children clamouring noisily round the table. 
The study, with all its discomfort, was preferable 
to the common sitting-room at Woodbine Cottage. 

‘ Do come away, Mr. Frew,’ said a fretful, peevish 
voice the moment he entered. ‘How do you 
suppose it possible for me to attend to this tribe 
with baby on my knee ? ’ 

‘ Could Martha not take baby while we have 
tea, dear ? ’ asked the curate gently. 

‘ Martha, indeed ! She engaged to have nothing 
to do with the children, and she sticks to the letter 
of her engagement. Those who can’t afford to 
keep a nurse-girl must just be tormented with 
children at all times, and they are a torment. 
Willie Frew, if you don’t stop that kicking the 
chair legs I’ll box your ears and send you to the 
nursery.’ 

The culprit, a round-faced, chubby boy of five, 
grinned, but was immediately subdued by one 
glance from his father’s eyes. The little Frews 
obeyed their father’s every look, though he was 
always gentle with them ; I fear they had a very 
scanty measure of respect for their mother. I do not 
know that I shall trj?- to describe Henrietta Frew. 
It would not be a pleasant task. She had been a 
pretty, silly, idle girl, brought up with her uncle. 


THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 105 

the rector of Crosshaven, who indulged every 
whim to which she gave expression. Thus she had 
had a poor preparation for the present life. When 
Gilbert Frew, a pale, handsome, intellectual student 
from Oxford, came as curate to Crosshaven, it was 
perhaps natural that Henrietta La.ke should be 
interested in him. Both had drifted into matri- 
mony without much forethought or regard for the 
future, and the rector had not seen fit to withhold 
his consent, though he warned his niece that she 
was not making a change for the better. Henrietta, 
however, thought all promised fair : her uncle was 
an elderly man, possessed of ample means ; what 
more natural than that the good living should 
very soon fall to Gilbert Frew ? The curate 
himself took no thought for the future, and most 
certainly never gave a moment’s consideration to 
the chances depending on the retirement or death 
of Mr. Eidgeway. He was a student and a 
scholar, a man given to dreaming and thinking ; 
not a practical man by any means, not one 
certainly who should have married on the income 
of a curate. What sympathy or affinity there 
could be between him and Henrietta Lake I do not 
pretend to be able to tell. Now, after a lapse of 
eleven dreary years, it might well be a matter of 
conjecture how two beings so utterly unsuited to 
each other should ever have bound themselves 
together in marriage. Twelve months after his 
niece left him, the rector himself married a young 
and handsome woman, and thus inflicted a grievous 
disappointment on Mrs. Frew. She had so long 


io6 BRIAR AND PALM. 

regarded the Eectory as her home, and though, to 
please her husband, who insisted on a separate 
establishment, she had taken up her abode at 
Woodbine Cottage, she only regarded the arrange- 
ment as temporary, and kept the Eectory in view. 
But her uncle’s marriage made a great change, and 
for ever closed the doors of the Eectory against 
her. Mrs. Eidgeway was a haughty young woman, 
who treated the curate and his wife with patroniz- 
ing contempt. If there was one sentiment stronger 
than another in the breast of Henrietta Frew, it 
was aversion to her uncle’s wife. Happily Mrs. 
Eidgeway did not long remain in Crosshaven to 
be a daily thorn in the side of the curate’s wife. 
She declared it impossible to live in such a dull 
place, and carried her elderly husband off to a 
fashionable German resort, where they practically 
made their home. Mr. Eidgeway paid occasional 
visits to his parish, but Gilbert Frew was left 
curate in charge, for which he was paid a hundred 
and sixty pounds per annum. The rector would 
willingly have made it two hundred, but his wife 
prevented him. The Eectory was shut up, the 
beautiful old rooms, with their fine furnishings, 
never saw the light of day. This state of matters 
did not give entire satisfaction in Crosshaven, but 
the Eector was perfectly indifferent to that. He 
had always been a pompous and rather indolent 
man, and now in his old age he had given himself 
up wholly to the world. Gilbert Frew’s post was 
no sinecure, yet he strove conscientiously to fulfil 
his many duties, though often with a tired and 


THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 


anxious heart. There was nothing to give him 
courage at home. When a man has a happy fire- 
side he is doubly strong to fight the world’s battle. 
There is no armour more serviceable in the field of 
life than that buckled on by the hands of wife and 
children who love and are beloved. Gilbert Frew had 
striven to do his duty by his wife ; she was still dear 
to him, but it must be told that it was as the mother 
of his children rather than as his wife. A sad thing 
indeed, but not without parallel in everyday life. 
The secret of wedded happiness is a mysterious 
and beautiful thing which requires very delicate 
handling. Henrietta Frew, being disappointed in 
her lot in life, had degraded herself into a slattern 
and a shrew. Her husband was compassionated in 
Crosshaven as much as he was beloved. Very few 
indeed had a good word to say for the curate’s wife, 
yet she needed pity perhaps more than he. For he 
had his own deep joys peculiar to a refined and 
sensitive nature, and his people loved him with a 
great love. He could not go out of doors without 
receiving evidence of it, and it was very precious to 
him. But he was a careworn, anxious, often a sad- 
hearted man. He saw his five children growing 
up around him, every day increasing their wants, 
which he had not the wherewithal to meet. Mrs. 
Frew was not a manager. The stipend was not so 
meagrely small but that it might have afforded 
quiet comfort, and left a surplus for future need. 

What was to become of those young creatures was 
a question which often darkened the horizon of the 
curate’s thought. As for his wife, she drifted with 


BRIAR AND PALM. 

the tide, spent the money recklessly as it came in, 
and, when it was all gone, grumbled over dinner 
without meat and bread without butter till quarter 
day brought her luxury again. One thing the 
curate sternly set his face against, the incurring of 
debt even for household necessaries. What could 
not be paid for must be dispensed with, was his 
rule, one which as yet his wife had not ventured to 
break. A disappointed, frivolous, fretful woman, 
then, was the curate’s wife, asking nor craving no 
higher delight than to forget the sordid cares of life 
in the pages of the last novel from the circulating 
library at Southport. 

Mr. Frew took the child from his wife’s arms and 
sat down by the table, Daisy stealing to the chair 
at his side. The children were five in number, all 
boj's but Daisy, who was her father’s pet. He tried 
to feel equally towards all his children, but he could 
not help the peculiar and clinging affection going 
out to the little girl. Mrs. Frew was jealous of her 
husband’s affection for the child, and, strange as it 
may seem, was less indulgent to her than to any of 
the others. Daisy feared her mother ; her sensitive 
nature shrank from the outbursts of temper and 
the quick, harsh words which fell so readily from her 
mother’s lips. These things shadowed the child’s 
life, and were real and great sorrows to her, over 
which she brooded in silence. 

‘ Where were you, Daisy Frew, that you did not 
come help Martha to get tea % ’ asked Mrs. Frew, 
turning her eyes sharply on the child’s face. It 
was a peculiarity of the curate’s wife to call her 


THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 


109 


children their full name when she addressed 
them. 

‘ I was on the marshes, mamma, with Captain 
Silas,’ Daisy answered meekly. 

‘ Captain Silas I always Captain Silas. This must 
be put a stop to. Remember in future, Daisy Frew, 
that I don’t choose that you should walk in the 
marshes with a common, ignorant old fisherman. 
It cannot be good for the child, Mr. Frew, to 
associate so much with that old man.’ 

‘ She will get no harm, but only good from Captain 
Silas, Henrietta,’ said the curate, with a slight smile. 
He knew well that the heart of the old man was as 
pure and simple as that of his own little child. 

‘ Oh, of course I ’ snapped Mrs. Frew. ‘ It would 
be impossible for you to agree with me or to sup- 
port my authority before the children. But if you 
go on the marshes again with Captain Silas, Daisy 
Frew, I shall whip you — remember that.’ 

Mrs. Frew was out of sorts, in plain words, in a 
bad temper. Funds were low at Woodbine Cottage, 
and a whisper that the Rectory was let had reached 
her ears. The curate’s face flushed, but he did not 
say to his wife that Daisy should not be whipped 
should she walk again with Captain Silas. But 
upon that he was determined. The child’s lip 
quivered as she bent to her teacup, but she spoke 
not a word. 

‘ Have you heard, Mr. Frew, that the Rectory is 
let ? ’ Mrs. Frew asked, more placidly, as she sipped 
her own tea. 

‘Yes, I beard it some days ago.’ 


no 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ And did not think it worth your while to tell 
me,’ snapped Mrs. Frew. ‘ I had it from Martha 
when she came in to set the tea. Would it not be 
too much to ask whether you know anything about 
the tenants ? ’ 

‘Doctor Eadcliffe told me, Henrietta. A Mr. 
Barham and his wife from near Ainsborough. 
Quite young people. He met with a serious 
accident in the hunting-field. I believe his back 
was injured. They have been at Southport for 
some weeks, but Mr. Barham has tired of it.’ 

‘ Barham,’ said Mrs. Frew meditatively. ‘ Is he 
Barham of Scaris Dene, do you know ? ’ 

‘ That is the name of his place, I believe,’ said the 
curate absently, as he tried to extricate the baby’s 
fist from his tea. He handled the child awk- 
wardly, and could not enjoy his meals and nurse 
him at the same time. Nevertheless Mrs. Frew 
invariably placed the child on his knee when they 
were at table. 

‘ That will make a fine stir in the Haven. They 
will pay a pretty sum for the house ; Caroline 
Ridgeway would see to that,’ said Mrs. Frew 
bitterly. ‘ There is some one coming in at the 
garden gate — a gentleman ; do you know him, Mr. 
Frew ? ’ 

‘ Oh, that’s the new doctor, mamma,’ said Willie, 
with his mouth full. ‘ I’ve seen him often.’ 

‘ Oh, indeed ! What does he-w’ant here, I wonder.’ 

* He will wish to return my call, probably,’ said 
the curate. ‘ Can I bring him in here, Henrietta, 
and ofier him a cup of tea ? ’ 


THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 


Ill 


‘ No, you can’t. Just look at the mess on the 
table ! We can’t afford to offer anybody a meal. 
It is as much as we can do to fill our own mouths,’ 
said Mrs. Frew, more forcibly than elegantly. ‘ Sit 
still, Mr. Frew ; Martha will show him into the 
study, I daresay, and tell you,’ 

But Martha, instead of taking the caller to the 
unoccupied room, brought him to the sitting-room 
door, and announced him by name. Doctor Holgate. 
Mrs. Frew rose, not at all confused, and received 
him with a gracious smile. He was a 5mung and 
handsome man. Mrs. Frew suddenly remembered 
that she had once been attractive. The instincts of 
the vain coquette were still alive within her. The 
children stared open-mouthed, the curate rose, with 
the baby on his arm, looking slightly confused. 

He was a gentleman, and he keenly felt the 
awkwardness of his position, only for a moment 
however. As he looked into the dark eyes of the 
stranger, he felt kindly toward him, a sweet smile 
touched his lips, and he frankly held out his hand. 

‘ How are you, Doctor Holgate ? I am pleased 
to see you. This is my wife. Excuse lack of 
ceremony, and join us at tea.’ 

‘ Yes, do. Doctor Holgate,’ said Mrs, Frew. 
‘ Now, you children, get away, every one of you, 
to the nursery, and be quiet there. Daisy, tell 
Martha to bring some hot water, and then take 
baby and keep him quiet in the nursery.’ 

Holgate sat down. The table was not inviting, 
strewed with the children’s scraps and crumbs, and 
adorned with dirty cups. Then Mrs. Frew, in her 


II2 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


soiled and even ragged gown, with her hair untidily 
caught up with pins at the back, did not make an 
attractive hostess. But there was something about 
the curate which drew Holgate to him ; his face had 
a history, his eyes carried in their depths a world 
of patient endurance. 

‘ I was sorry I missed your call, Mr. Frew,’ 
Holgate said sincerely. ‘And I ought to have 
returned it earlier.’ 

‘ Oh, not at all. We do not stand on ceremony 
in the Haven,’ said the curate, with his sunny 
smile. ‘And how are you going to take to us? 
Kindly, I hope. We are prepared to be very fond 
of you. I have heard good reports of you already 
in the Haven. Doctor Radclilfe will require to look 
to his laurels, eh ? ’ 

‘ Doctor Radcliflfe is behind the age, and he never 
was much of a favourite,’ said Mrs. Frew. ‘ I fear 
the advantage will be all on our side. There is not 
much in the Haven to recommend it to you. It is 
a mean, vulgar, horrid little place.’ 

‘ I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Frew. I assure 
you I had formed quite a different opinion of it.’ 

‘ Which you’ll soon change,’ said Mrs. Frew, with 
a nod. ‘ Of course Mr. Frew will contradict me ; 
he always does. But I know Crosshaven well. 
I’ve lived in it since I was six. My uncle is the 
rector.’ 

‘ Indeed ? He does not reside here, I understand.' 
‘No.’ 

The monosyllable was jerked from Mrs. Frew’s 
lips with extraordinary vehemence. The curate 


THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 


113 

looked nervous. He did not wish his wife to 
ventilate her pet grievance before a stranger. He 
tried to change the subject by asking Holgate a 
question concerning his former home, but directly 
it was answered Mrs. Frew began again. 

‘You’ll be having g, new and a paying patient 
presently. The Rectory is let furnished, — a shame- 
.ful thing if ever there was one ; but it’s Mrs. 
Ridgeway’s doing. My uncle would never do such 
a thing.’ 

‘ I understand that the tenants come to the 
Rectory to-morrow.’ 

‘ Oh, indeed ? Do you know them. Doctor 
Holgate ? ’ 

‘Not at all ; I am ignorant even of their name, 
Mrs. Frew.’ 

‘Oh, I know their name; Barham, from Scaris 
Dene, near Ainsborough.’ 

Holgate visibly started. Mrs. Frew made a 
mental note of it. 

‘ By the bye, were you not located near Ains- 
borough, Doctor Holgate?’ asked the curate. 

‘Yes, at Waveney, seven miles east of Ains- 
borough. I have heard the name of Barham,’ 
answered Holgate. ‘ It is a curious coincidence 
that they should come here. I knew of the sad 
accident which befel Mr. Barham.’ 

‘ Ay, a young man in the prime of life, and a 
beautiful young wife, I am told. It is very sad,’ 
said the curate. ‘ Have you half an hour’s leisure, 
doctor ? Would you c;ire to take a stroll with me 
across the marshes ? ’ 


10 


BR/AR AND PALM. 


114 

‘ I shall be most happy.’ 

‘ I’m sure you needn’t be so inhospitable, Mr. 
Frew, turning Doctor Holgate out like that ! ’ said 
Mrs. Frew sharply. ‘ Men are so selfish. Doctor 
Holgate. Mr. Frew forgets that it might be a little 
change for me to talk to you, I am never out of 
doors. Life is changed for me since the dear old 
Rectory days, when my uncle and I were all in all 
to each other.’ 

Holgate saw the curate wince and slightly turn 
his head away. He looked from husband to wife, 
noting unconsciously the striking contrast between 
them. He knew now what had placed these deep 
lines on the curate’s brow, what had given to his 
face that patient look which had in it a touch of 
the sublime. 



4 



CHAPTER IX. 

FRIENDS. 

‘ This to me is life, 

Tliat if life be a burden, I will join 
To make it but the burden of a song,’ 

Bailey. 

HERE shall we go?’ asked the curate 
when they stepped out of doors. ‘ The 
sky has overcast ; I am afraid it will 
rain presently.’ 

* It will not harm us,’ said Holgate. ‘ 1 have not 
had time yet to go down by the shore.’ 

‘ Come, then.’ 

The curate opened the garden gate, and allowed 
Holgate to pass out first. 

Woodbine Cottage, a small but picturesque brick 
building, stood on a slight eminence above the 
church, and commanded the village and a fine sea 
view. It had been built by Mr. Ridgeway as a 
residence for the curate. The church was a large 
handsome structure recently restored, but the 
Rectory was quite a picture, a lovely rambling 
old house, hung with ivy, embowered among trees. 
Its wide garden stretched across to the road, but 

115 




BRIAR AND PALM. 


1 16 

it had a neglected appear<ance, having been long 
imcared for. A man, however, was working in it 
as the two gentlemen passed. The curate paused, 
and, leaning over the low wall, called him by name, 
and asked for his wife and family. 

‘ That seems a fine old house. Is the rector out 
of health that he lives abroad ? ’ asked Holgate 
when they went on again. 

‘ No ; but his wife does not like the Haven,’ 
returned the curate, with slightly shadowing eyes. 
‘It is a pity. His action has weaned him away 
from the people, and they loved him once.’ 

‘ And have you the entire work of the parish, 
Mr. Frew?’ 

‘ I have.’ 

‘ Is there not an abuse there ? ’ asked Holgate. 
‘ I presume the absentee will be the recipient of 
the larger portion of the income ? ’ 

The curate smiled. 

‘ My stipend is a hundred and sixty pounds per 
annum, Doctor Holgate.’ 

Holgate looked curiously into the curate’s fine 
face. Its expression was perfectly serene ; there 
was not even a trace of bitterness in his eye. 

‘ You seem perfectly satisfied. I wonder that 
you stay here,’ he said involuntarily. 

‘ It is not easy, in these days of overcrowding in 
the professions, to make an advantageous change,’ 
said the curate. ‘ Besides, I love the place and the 
people. I believe I have a corner in every heart 
in the parish.’ 

‘No doubt; but your children are growing up 


FRIENDS. 


117 

about you. How many did I see in your dining- 
room ? ’ asked Holgate. 

‘ I have* five/ returned the curate, and the sun- 
shine on his face became obscured by a passing 
shadow. The surgeon had touched a sore point. 
‘ I confess I have many an anxious thought con- 
cerning them, and yet why should I. My times 
and theirs are in my Father’s hand.’ 

Holgate was surprised. He had never heard any 
one speak in such a strain. The expression on the 
curate’s face as he uttered these words was even 
more expressive. It betrayed a full and confident 
trust in an unseen love which touched Holgate. 
He did not understand it. Hitherto religion had 
not occupied his thoughts, nor had it had a place 
in the home where he had been reared. As yet, 
perhaps, he had not felt the need of it. Yet this 
man spoke as if his faith were one of the most 
precious of his possessions. The curate had started 
a new vein of thought in the surgeon’s mind, which 
might yet be touched to fine issues. 

‘ So you have been favourably impressed with 
Crosshaven ? ’ said the curate, as they entered upon 
the village. ‘ I hope a closer acquaintance with it 
will strengthen these pleasant impressions. They 
are a simple, kindly, honest people, who in the 
main do their duty by God and man.’ 

‘ I expect to be very happy and comfortable,’ 
returned the surgeon, then he paused a moment 
and looked up the wide, straggling street. ‘ Ho you 
know, it is very picturesque. The old inn is a picture 
in itself. It is a quaint, old-fashioned place.’ 


ii8 BRIAR AND PALM. 

‘ Yes, it is. Have you been inside ? The interior 
is very quaint. Well I daresay you will see it 
often enough yet. Cicely Sutton is a large-hearted, 
hospitable soul.’ 

‘ So I have heard. I lodged with her relatives 
in Waveney, Mr. Frew.’ 

‘ With Mrs. Bolsover ? You must tell Cicely 
that. You should hear her giving an opinion on 
Bolsover, as she calls her late brother-in-law. She 
is an original soul,’ said the curate, with a quiet 
smile of amusement. ‘ We need not go up just 
now, however ; we had better stroll round by 
Silas Rimmer’s to the breakwater. That was a drop 
of rain, I think, but it will not come heavily all 
at once.’ 

‘ I should think you have not much congenial 
society here, Mr. Frew,’ said Holgate, as they 
turned their faces towards the sea. 

‘ What do you mean by congenial society ? ’ 

‘ Well, I mean there cannot be many cultured or 
intellectual people in a place like this.’ 

‘ There is not much book-learning, if you mean 
that, but there is plenty of intellect and of that 
innate culture which is independent of outward 
things. Old Silas Rimmer, for instance, who lives 
in the cottage we have just passed, is a gentleman 
if ever there was one. Ay, many a lesson have I 
learned from Captain Silas.’ 

‘ I don’t understand you, Mr. Frew. The man 
is a fisherman, I believe. How could you learn 
anything from a common, ignorant old man ? ’ 

‘ I don’t like to hear you utter these cant phrases. 


FRIENDS. 


119 

A man may be a fisherman, and yet neither 
common nor ignorant. Captain Silas is certainly 
neither. He can read nature as we read an open 
book, and, what is infinitely more important, he 
finds the Creator in every phase of it. I owe much 
to that good old man. He has given me heart 
many a time when I have seen things darkly, when 
my faith has been loosing its hold.’ 

‘ Mr. Frew, do you believe that we are really in 
the hands of a higher power, that all we do is of 
importance to Him, that He orders our lives for us ?’ 
asked Holgate, the question falling involuntarily 
from his lips. 

‘ Do you doubt it ? ’ 

‘ I have never thought of it. T have had no time 
to study these things.’ 

The curate turned his deep eyes full on his com- 
panion’s face. Holgate met that look for an instant, 
and then turned his head away. He felt humbled 
when he saw the compassion in the curate’s eyes. 
The nnworthiness of his own aims was presented 
to him for the first time. Self, self-advancement, 
was the centre as yet of all his thoughts. He saw 
at that moment the meanness of his pursuit It 
was a new and not a pleasant sensation. His 
colour rose, he bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon 
the ground. The curate saw these things, but 
took no notice of them. 

‘ The sea is wild to-night. Look at the breakers 
yonder. They are furious.’ 

He stood still on the bank, and pointed across 
the marshes. The tide had came in with rapidity. 


120 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


and was now washing the marshes. It was an 
angry grey sea, the waves were high and broke 
with surging spray on the desolate shore. The 
rain-mist had lowered on the opposite coast, hiding 
it entirely from view ; even Southport, a little to 
their left, was obscured. The rain was beginning 
to fall in a steady shower. 

‘It is a pleasant thought that He holds yon 
tossing expanse in the hollow of His hand,’ said 
the curate dreamily. ‘ To liken life to a sea is a 
common simile, but one of great beauty and fitness. 
Were it not for the knowledge that we are in His care, 
we could not breast its storms, and they are many.’ 

He spokei more to himself than to his companion, 
his eye wore an absent expression, as if his thoughts 
had been elsewhere. Holgate felt uncomfortable, 
but he knew that he was drawn to Gilbert Frew, 
that his heart went out to him in no ordinary way, 
a new experience also for him. 

‘ Come, we must go on. We shall be drenched 
presently,’ said the curate, with a swift, sudden 
smile. ‘ Well, are we to be friends ? ’ 

‘ If you wish it.’ 

‘ I do wish it. I like you. Your face wins one. 
May God bless you, and make you a blessing to 
us all.’ 

They shook hands there, standing in the gather- 
ing darkness, with the raindrops beating fiercely 
upon them. So they sealed their friendship, which 
was to stand firm through many a strange vicissi- 
tude, and which was to be a blessing unspeakable 
to Denis Holgate. They knew little of each other, 


FRIENDS. 


121 


and, though to outward seeming there was little in 
common between them, the heart of the one had 
gone out to the other with that mysterious and 
subtle power which is not a product of time, but of 
sympathy and affinity in human nature. 

‘ Tell me something of yourself,’ said the curate 
presently, as they began quickly to retrace their 
steps. ‘ You are not a Lancashire man ? ’ 

‘ No ; I was born in London,’ Holgate answered, 
and in spite of himself a restraint crept into his 
voice and manner. 

‘ You studied there ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; and my home is there too.’ 

‘It is a great city; its magnitude overwhelms 
one’s thought,’ said the curate. ‘ If I have ever 
wished for a change, it has been for a city charge. 
I could have thrown my heart very warmly into 
the work there.’ 

‘There are many good livings in London, I 
believe,’ said Holgate absently. 

‘ I should prefer an East End charge. My heart 
often goes out in pity towards that gigantic mission 
field. I have always been able to make more 
friends among the poor than among the rich.’ 

‘ I have no interest in the poor.’ 

Holgate spoke curtly, and his expression changed. 
The curate looked at him for a second in mild 
surprise, but made no comment on his words. 

‘ I think poverty is, in nine cases out of ten, the 
individual’s own fault. Any man, by keeping an 
aim in view and steadily working for it, can attain 
to a position in the world,’ continued Holgate. 

11 


122 


BRIAR AND PALM, 


‘ 1 do not agree with you/ said the curate 
quietly. ‘ We cannot always control the circum- 
stances of life, nor can we avoid its vicissitudes. 
Many a brave and noble soul has succumbed in the 
struggle. A wholly selfish man, of course, succeeds 
where a more scrupulous man will fail.’ 

Holgate was silent. Perhaps he felt rebuked. 
Once more a vision of the old life was before him. 
It was the face of Rhoda that stood out most 
vividly. Had he not been very selfish where she 
was concerned ? 

‘ Mr. Frew, may I ask you a question ? Sup- 
posing a man has been hampered by his early 
associations, is he not justified in casting them off ? ’ 

‘ I do not quite understand you. If by associa- 
tions you mean obligations, certainly not,’ said the 
curate, and his eye dwelt keenly on his companion’s 
face. He fancied the surgeon was speaking of 
himself. ‘ If you refer to evil companions or 
habits, of course it is a different thing. But I 
have known men who, aided by the unselfish devo- 
tion of parents, have risen to positions of eminence, 
but whose souls, instead of being blessed by the 
largeness of life, have become stunted and miser- 
able things, and who have looked with contempt 
upon those to whom they owed their success. The 
world may call these successful men, but a curse 
dwells upon them, because they have broken one of 
the commandments,’ 

‘ You speak strongly, Mr. Frew.’ 

‘ I feel strongly. It is a common sin, and is not 
much reprobated. Even in the Haven we have 


FRIENDS. 


123 


had instances of old people becoming chargeable to 
the parish, because their own children had become 
careless of their sacred obligations. I sometimes 
think that filial ingratitude is a product of the 
nineteenth century.’ 

The curate’s words were powerful, they sank 
into the heart of Denis Holgate. He had never 
met one who expressed himself so fearlessly, and 
he had not a word to say. For a moment he felt 
tempted to lay his case before his new friend, but, 
reflecting that the shortness of their acquaintance 
scarcely justified such a confidence, he refrained. 
Sometimes Holgate stilled an accusing conscience 
by reflecting that he was only obeying a parental 
behest. Yet he was not at ease. There was a 
nobleness in him which revolted against the 
severance of that sacred bond of kinship. He felt 
that in accepting his mother’s mistaken charge he 
had lowered his own manhood. Holgate was 
awaking gradually to the knowledge of a higher 
life than that bounded by a merely selfish aim. A 
perpetual struggle seemed to be going on in his 
mind. 

‘ I hope we shall see much of each other,’ said 
the curate, as they approached the home of Captain 
Silas. ‘ Perhaps we may be of use to each other ; 
the true use of friendship.’ 

‘ Mr. Frew, you are a good man,’ said the surgeon, 
with a boyish simplicity and earnestness which 
became him well. 

‘ Nay, only a struggling soul who often finds the 
path of life too hard. I have not been without 


124 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


care. Even now it sits darkly on my heart. Were 
I what you say, a truly good man, I should be able 
to trust to the uttermost. There are times, no 
doubt, when one can mount the very hill of God, 
but too often we are found faltering along the dark 
valley.-^. I do try imperfectly to do my duty ; and 
the Lord is very tender. He will not break the 
bruised reed.’ 

It was impossible not to be moved by the pathos 
of the curate’s words. Holgate looked at him, and 
saw that his face was turned towards the raging 
sea with an expression of peace and of joy. A 
feeling of envy touched Holgate’s heart. This 
man, weighed down by the sordid cares of earth, 
possessed a precious secret unknown to him. The 
surgeon was not a scoffer, nor an unbeliever, in 
the accepted sense of the word ; he was simply 
indifferent. He had never given a thought to the 
higher life, nor taken heed of ought beyond the 
concerns of the world. But his heart was not yet 
absolutely hardened. The curate was interested in 
him beyond measure. Without knowing anything 
jf his experience, he divined that it had been of an 
unusual kind. He saw that his mind was question- 
ing, and there was a prayer in the good man’s 
heart for his guiding. He was full of sympathy 
for the young. His heart kindled at the sight of 
a young man setting out on life’s journey, with all 
its grand possibilities before him. He remembered 
the glowing visions of his own youth, and, though 
middle life had not realized them, he' had not 
grown soured by disappointment. It may be said 


FRIENDS. 


I2S 


that the mere fact of having an uncongenial help- 
meet need not have hindered him from going 
forward, or from making the best use of his talents. 
If you say so, my friend, I infer that you have not 
lived with such a woman. When a man has such 
a cross to bear, it is only the grace of God that 
can keep any faith in things human and divine 
alive in his heart. Such was the experience of the 
curate in charge at Crosshaven. 

They parted at the foot of the village street, 
with a close hand-clasp, and another earnest ‘ God 
bless you,’ spoken by the curate. Then Holgate, 
without heed of the rain, walked slowly on towards 
Doctor Radcliffe’s house, with his eyes bent on the 
ground, full of thought. 

When he reached home, he found that his 
colleague had gone out, and that dinner w’aited for 
him. When he entered the dining-room he found 
a letter on his plate. It bore the Ainsborough post- 
mark, and was from Lydia Bolsover. Instantly his 
thoughts underwent a change. He felt impatient 
as he tore it open. If he had not forgotten her, 
he had at least become utterly indifferent to her. 
He even felt indignant that she should persecute 
him with her letters. He had not written to her 
since he came to Crosshaven, more than a fortnight 
before. He scanned the closely-written sheet with 
hurried, frowning glance. It was a loving letter, 
and breathed no reproach ; a letter which might 
have touched him, because it show^ed an unselfish 
love. She mentioned that her mother had been 
very ill, and that Doctor Lacre tea red the worst. 


126 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Then she asked a number of questions about Cross- 
haven, among others, if he had yet made the 
acquaintance of her aunt at the ‘ Boot and Shoe.’ 
Ilolgate read it to the end, and, putting it in his 
pocket-book, began his dinner with a troubled 
expression on his face. Beyond a doubt, Lydia 
Bolsover considered that she had a claim upon him. 
She wrote as a woman writes to the man whose wife 
she expects to become. That brief love, if it had 
ever existed, had burnt out in Holgate’s heart. 
He no longer cared for her, he had never been in 
earnest ; why could she not look upon what had 
been between them as an idle pastime, to be 
forgotten now ? I do not suppose he was aware 
how often he had spoken kind and even tender 
words to the girl, nor how full of meaning his 
looks had been ; but she had not forgotten one. 
They were too sweet and precious to her to be 
thought of lightly. Each one was treasured in 
her heart with a faithfulness which would have 
surprised Holgate. It was a grievous mistake he 
had committed, making love to Lydia Bolsover, 
and one which would cause him some trouble. He 
was brooding over this, when the servant entered 
the room in some haste. 

‘ There is a message from the Rectory, sir. The 
new folks have come, and you are to go down 
without delay, if you please. Mr. Barham is very 
ill, and wishes to see you at once.’ 



CHAPTER X. 

A woman’s heritage. 

‘ To be found untired 

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain. 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain. 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And oh, to love through all things 1 * 

Mrs. ITemans. 

OLGATE finished his dinner before he left 
the house. When he went out of doors 
he found that the storm had increased. 
A wild wind was blowing over the 
marshes laden with the salt from the sea. His 
cheeks tingled as it beat against him, but he 
enjoyed it thoroughly, it seemed to set all his 
pulses in motion. He walked quickly, and was at 
the Rectory in less than ten minutes. He did not 
feel very curious regarding the patient he was 
about to see. He had never been subjected to 
that painful experience of many a young practi- 
tioner, of being obliged to count carefully, regarding 
each new one as a cause for thankfulness and hope. 
His professional career had been so far singularly 
free from care. He had made no mistakes, not 

127 




128 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


a misgiving concerning his treatment or its results 
had as yet weighed upon his spirit. He had thus 
obtained thorough confidence in himself. 

Signs of bustle and confusion were visible at the 
Eectory. As the surgeon approached the house he 
saw through the open door a pile of luggage standing 
in the hall. He stood a moment within the porch, 
and looked round the old-fashioned garden, which was 
separated from the close shrubbery by a broad, well- 
kept privet hedge. It was a sweet spot, suggestive 
even on that bleak winter day of sheltering rest. 

‘ Are you the doctor, sir ? ’ a servant asked, catch- 
ing sight of him as she hurried through the hall. 

Yes.’ 

He put down his umbrella, set it in the stand, 
and took off his dripping overcoat. The girl looked 
flurried, and said, — 

‘ Step into the dining-room, sir, and I’ll tell my 
mistress you have come.’ 

Holgate nodded, and entered the room, the maid 
closing the door behind him. It was not in order ; 
the furniture was covered with holland, the win- 
dows were curtainless, the pictures draped in 
muslin, but the fire, which had evidently been 
hastily lit in the dog-grate, cast a ruddy glow over 
everything, and made the place home-like. 

It was a long, low, narrow room, with a finely- 
carved oak roof and panelling of the same round 
the walls. The space left for the pictures was 
painted a rich dark shade of terra-cotta. Holgate 
l)eg<an to feel interested, and, as the minutes went 
past, even curious regarding his new patient. He 


A WOMAN’S HERITAGE. 129 

wondered why he was kept waiting so long. There 
was a quaint Swiss timepiece on the mantel, which 
indicated two quarters of the hour while he waited. 
He could hear the faint sound of voices, and of 
hurrying feet, through the house, and, more than 
once, the loud, impatient ringing of a bell. At last, 
when he was growing tired of waiting, the door was 
quickly opened, and a lady entered the room. In 
the pale uncertain glimmer of the candle-light he did 
not see her face until she had come up to the table. 

‘ I have to apologize for keeping you waiting so 
long,’ she said in a voice whose sweetness fell upon 
the ears of Holgate like some familiar melody ; 
‘ but my husband was not quite ready to see you.’ 

‘ It did not matter. I was quite pleased to wait,’ 
the surgeon answered, and his tone and manner were 
both confused. For, now that the light fell full upon 
her, he knew that hers was the face he had seen, as 
in a dream, one moonlit night at St. Cyrus. Not 
so radiant now as then, but pale and worn and sad, 
with the shadow of an inward care dwelling perpetu- 
ally upon it. Her attire was very plain ; a brown 
serge dress, a linen collar and cuffs fastened with 
links of gold, no ornament save her wedding-ring. 

‘ I expected to see a much older gentleman,’ she 
said, with a faint smile, yet with a touch of concern 
in her voice. 

‘ If you would prefer to see my colleague; Doctor 
EadcliflPe, I could go for him. I daresay he will 
be home now. He could be here in fifteen minutes,’ 
said Holgate readily. 

‘ Oh no ; you are very kind, but when you have 


130 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


taken the trouble to come, Doctor ’ She paused 

and looked inquiringly at him, waiting for his name. 

‘ Holgate.’ 

‘ Holgate,’ she repeated, and her fine eyes wore a 
puzzled look. ‘ How singular I I have relatives of that 
name. Mine is Barham. W ill you please take a chair 
while I tell you something about my husband’s 
illness.’ 

‘ May I offer you a chair, Mrs. Barham ? you 
look tired,’ said Holgate, with gentleness. He had 
never looked better than at that moment, his fine 
face softened by that kindliness. His heart was 
touched by the appearance of this young girl, who 
ought not to have been so early burdened with the 
care of wifehood. 

‘ Thank you.’ 

Her beautiful smile was only a passing gleam. 
When she began to speak, the sadness returned to 
her face. Holgate stood by the table, looking down 
upon her with a mingling of emotions in his soul. 
Perhaps at that moment the man had the mastery 
over the physician. He felt impatient of the trouble 
which had robbed that sweet face of its bloom. She 
was a creature made for sunshine and happiness, 
not for the sordid cares of earth. He was yet to 
leai’ii that that frail woman’s form held a capacity 
for endurance, a power of patience and unselfish- 
ness, before which he would stand ashamed. 

‘ Some months ago my husband met with an 
accident in the hunting-field,’ she began in quiet 
steady tones. ‘ It was a serious fall ; his horse fell 
above him, and his spine has been injured seriously. 


A WOMAN'S HERITAGE. 


131 


I may say hopelessly. The whole system received 
a terrible shock.’ 

Holgate listened and learned soniething — that 
she did not care for her husband. A woman who 
loved could not so calmly have spoken of such a 
calamity. Why he should notice that, or why it 
should interest him, he did not know. 

‘ It happened when we were paying a visit 
to my guardian, Sir Fulke Holgate, at St. Cyrus 
Abbey, and Mr. Barham was laid up there for some 
weeks. Directly he was conscious he insisted 
upon being removed to our own home at Scaris 
Dene. The surgeon said it was a great risk, and 
advised against it, but Mr. Barham insisted, and we 
went. He was the worse for it, and was thrown 
back for some time. When he began to recover 
the desire for change came upon him again, and he 
would not rest. Early in the year we came to South - 
port, but my husband tired of it. You see it is a 
great trial to him to be confined to the house. When 
he was in health he lived out of doors. It is natural 
that he should weary of everything. He constantly 
fancies he is out of sorts, and must have a physician 
seeing him every day. We have taken this house for 
the spring months, but whether we shall stay or not 
I cannot tell. I should be glad to feel settled for 
a little while ; and it seems a sweet, quiet spot.’ 

Holgate bowed. Of course he had no right to speak 
a word of sympathy. He was there in a professional 
capacity, and he must be careful to keep within it. 

Mrs. Barham rose. ‘ Will you come up now % ’ she 
asked, and then her eyes fell as she continued, with a 


132 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


slight hesitation, ‘ I think it right to tell you that 
my husband’s manner is sometimes very abrupt and 
quick. We must be very gentle with him. To be 
confined to one room, as he is, is a living death.’ 

‘ It is. 1 am deeply sorry, madam, for him and 
for you.’ 

It was impossible not to feel the deep sincerity 
with which the surgeon spoke. Winifred Barham 
raised her eyes gratefully to his face, and a slight 
smile dawned upon her own. It is possible that 
the man’s sympathy comforted her ; it is certain 
that neither felt as if the other were a stranger. 

At that moment the furious ringing of a bell 
sounded through the house. Mrs. Barham’s colour 
rose, and her hands were clasped nervously together. 

‘ That is Mr. Barham’s bell. Will you come up. 
Doctor Holgate % ’ 

‘ If you are ready.’ 

Holgate held open the door for her to pass out, 
and followed her up-stairs. As they stepped on to the 
landing they heard the sound of an angry voice order- 
ing a servant to see whether the doctor had arrived. 
Mrs. Barham hurried forward into the room, Hol- 
gate following. It was brilliantly lighted, one of the 
candelabra from the drawing-room being in full blaze 
on the dressing-table, and a fine wood fire was send- 
ing forth a cheerful glow from the hearth. On a couch 
near it lay the patient the surgeon had come to see. 

' This is Doctor Holgate, Guy,’ said his wife, as 
she went swiftly to his side. Holgate could see her 
face, and it wore a distinctly appealing gl_ance. 

‘ And why in the name of wonder couldn’t 


A WOMAN'S HERITAGE. 


133 


Doctor Holgate come when he was sent for ? ’ 
inquired Mr. Barham, with a scowl. 

‘ He came at once, Guy. I have detained him 
down-stairs explaining your case to him.’ 

‘You might have saved yourself the trouble, 
ma’am; I’m quite capable of explaining my own case. 
Sit down, can’t you ? ’ he added to Holgate. ‘ Now 
I want something to put awf^ this confounded rest- 
lessness and pain. I want steep, sir, and if you can 
make me sleep for ever, so much the better.’ 

Holgate sat down and drew his chair near the 
couch. He was the physician now, deeply interested 
in his patient. Calm, self-possessed, thoroughly 
confident, he C4*eated a favourable impression on Guy 
Barham, who had been accustomed, perhaps, to see 
his medical adviser slightly ruffled by his irritability 
and rude mode of address. Holgate took no notice 
of either. His heart was touched with pity at sight 
of the wreck of splendid manhood before him. If 
Guy Barham did not bear his cross with becoming 
meekness, it could not be said that it was light. To 
be stricken down in his young prime, and cut off' for 
ever from that open-air life to which he had been 
devoted, was a hard trial. He had the sympathy 
even of those who had held him in light esteem ; and 
when the surgeon’s final verdict was given, and it was 
known that never again would the squire of Scaris 
Dene sit in the saddle, nor, indeed, be able to help 
himself, it was said that it might have been better 
had the accident proved fatal at the time. Such 
was his opinion, expressed openly, and with that 
choice bitterness of language of which he was master. 


134 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


He was an exceptionally handsome man, hut it was 
merely a physical beauty; his face, young as he was, 
bore the impress of a selfish and even a coarse 
nature. He did not look like one fitted to hold in 
his hand the happiness of a refined and highly- 
strung nature like that of his wife. The marriage 
had been none of her seeking ; nay, it had been 
forced upon her by the indomitable will of her 
grandmother. The past two years had been years 
of bitterness for Winifred Barham. She had 
married without even the basis of respect, and she 
knew now that, in acquiescing in the will of others, 
she had grievously wronged herself and her husband. 
It had not taken him long to discover that she 
cared nothing for him, and it came upon him with 
a blow, for he had passionatel}' and blindly loved 
her in his own way. But it was a selfish way, which, 
would sacrifice nothing nor give a moment’s con- 
sideration to any feelings but his own. So their union 
became only a mockery of the name — a miserable 
chain clogging both their lives. Winifred Barham, 
with that earnestness peculiar to her nature, did her 
duty to the uttermost, but found it a hard and stony 
pathway for her feet. An unblessed wifehood I 
Can any heavier curse lie upon a woman’s soul ? 

‘ I tell you I wish the brute had killed me when 
she was at it,’ said Mr. Barham in a savage under- 
tone. ‘ I paid three hundred guineas for her, and 
that was how she served me the second time 1 
mounted her. It was a satisfaction to me to order 
her to be shot. I wish somebody would have as 
much compassion for me. Instead, they keep me 


A WOMAN’S HERITAGE. 


*35 


here in torture, and won’t let me have the only 
thing that gives me a moment’s peace. If they’d 
consult their own peace they’d let me have my way, 
and I’d soon put an end to the whole concern.’ 

Winifred Barham stepped to the side of the 
couch and laid her soft hand with a soothing touch 
on his hot head. But he impatiently thrust aside 
the gentle hand. 

‘ That’s what she gives me instead of morphia,’ 
he said, with a mirthle.ss laugh. ‘ Why don’t you 
speak. Doctor Holgate ? If you’re only going to sit 
and look at me, you needn’t come back. You look 
as if you knew your business too.’ 

‘ Your husband has been absolutely forbidden 
opiates, of course, Mrs. Barham ? ’ said Holgate, as 
he rose. 

‘ Talk to me, if you please,’ interrupted Mr. Bar- 
ham angrily. ‘ I am not a child or an idiot. I 
know what’s the matter with me. Yes, that old 
fossil at Southport said I wasn’t to have them ; 
but I will by some means. What do I want my 
nerves stimulated for ? That’s what the stuff in 
that bottle’s for. Throw it in the fire. It’s some- 
thing to kill I want, since I can’t cure.’ 

‘ Oh, hush, Guy ! ’ fell low and lalteringly from 
the wife’s sad lips. 

‘ Hear her now ! As if she wouldn’t account it 
a stroke of uncommon good fortune,’ he said jeer- 
ingly. ‘ You don’t like the truth, eh ? But you’ve 
got to swallow it, as I have to swallow the rubbish 
the quacks prescribe. Well, are you oif, Holgate ? 
Are you supposed to have done me any good ? 


136 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Holgate smiled at the impetuous, candid question. 

‘ I understand your case at least, Mr. Barham. 
I shall send something to ease your wakeful nights,’ 
he said quietly. ‘ Good evening. Mrs. Barham, 
may I speak with you a moment, please ? ’ 

‘ No, you mayn’t,’ retorted Guy Barham. ‘ That’s 
the way she used to go plotting with them at 
Southport, trying to circumvent me. It’s my side 
you must take, sir, or not a copper.’ 

‘ We are all on your side, Mr. Barham,’ said the 
surgeon, with a slight smile, as he turned to leave 
the room. He was inexpressibly touched by the 
interview ; it was impossible not to feel pity for 
the man. It was a living death for him to be 
confined to that couch of pain. 

‘ Come back ! When are you coming again 1 
Remember you are not to neglect me. You must 
come every day till I tell you to stop. Win, can’t 
you offer him some refreshment?’ 

‘ There is nothing unpacked yet, Guy ; we have 
been so short a time in the house.’ 

‘ Nothing unpacked ! What are the women 
about ? Things soon go to sixes and sevens when 
I’m on the shelf,’ he fumed angrily, ‘ Can’t you 
sit down and wait a minute, Holgate ? I haven’t 
said half I wanted to. You can’t understand any- 
thing about me, though you pretend you do. You 
haven’t spoken half a dozen words to me since you 
came in. Sit down and tell me something about 
the place. They will drag me from one place to 
another. I can’t get rest night nor day for them.’ 

‘ It is you who will not rest, Guy,’ his wife said. 


A WOMAN’S HERITAGE. 


137 


‘ If you had taken the surgeon’s advice we would 
never have left Scaris Dene.’ 

‘ So she says to get out of the scrape. It’s a 
wretched affair, Holgate, when a man is under a 
woman’s thumb. She looks soft and sweet enough, 
doesn’t she — a patient angel, and all that ? Don’t 
you believe it. Those meek-faced kind are the worst 
to deal with. They can’t be honest with a fellow. 
They give him sweet words when hate is in their 
souls. But they say that is a woman’s way.’ 

Again Winifred Barham’s colour rose, and she 
left the room. Accustomed as she was to insult 
and humiliation, she found it at that moment pecu- 
liarly trying. Holgate lingered a few minutes 
talking with the patient, and when he at length was 
allowed to go, he found her waiting for him in the 
hall. He saw her over the balustrade, standing 
against the table, and was struck by the hopeless- 
ness of her attitude. He did not marvel at it very 
much. The life she lived in that sick-room, sub- 
jected to the vagaries of a selfish and exacting 
invalid, must be one of curious torture. But how 
far short of the sad reality did his surmises fall ! 

‘Well,’ she said, when he reached her side, ‘ what 
is to be done ? ’ 

‘ He must not have the opiate he is craving for, 
Mrs. Barham,’ he answered gravely. ‘I daresay 
other surgeons have warned you of its danger.’ 

‘ Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘ they have.’ 

Her mouth trembled. She clasped her hands 
nervously before her. Her face was very pale and 
worn, her sweet eyes encircled by purple shadows. 

12 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


tss 

She had a hard trial, a heavy cross to bear. On 
her, the wife, the burden must fall. None could 
relieve her of it, nor even bear a share for her. 

‘ Is there no likelihood,’ she asked after a moment, 
‘ that the craving will grow less ? ’ 

‘ Yes, if it has nothing to feed upon it must 
die out,’ he answered. ‘ It is because every drop 
strengthens the desire that it is imperative it 
should be altogether kept from him. It has a 
strong hold upon him evidently.’ 

‘ Yes ; it was given to him for the pain at first, 
and he still imagines the pain as severe, though I 
am assured it is not so. The surgeon at Southport 
told me the craving for morphia was worse to bear 
than pain. 1 can see that. It seems cruel to keep 
it from him. He has no reason, you see, and we 
cannot wonder at it. W e must be very gentle with 
him. It is a heavy cross.’ 

‘It is ; but not heavier than yours, madam,’ 
Holgate said involuntarily. Her colour slightly rose, 
but she did not resent his words. She seemed to 
know him kind, true, keenly sympathetic, and her 
heart was crying out desolately for some human aid. 

‘ You will come soon and often,’ she said 
anxiously. ‘ I think he has taken kindly to you. 
I was very anxious ; he is so full of moods and 
whims.’ 

‘ How did they ever permit him to travel, Mrs. 
Barham ? He ought never to have left home.’ 

‘ They did not permit him,’ she answered, with a 
faint smile. ‘ But my husband knows no law, Mr. 
Holgate, hut his own whim. Good-night.’ 



CHAPTER XL 

A REVELATION. 

* Wearier with heart-sorrows 
Than with the weight of years.’ 

E. B. Brownino. 

HAT has come over you, Holgate ? 1 

seem to have seen so little of you for 
weeks. Surely you are busy ? ’ 

It was the curate who spoke. He met 
Holgate as he was coming leisurely up the street 
one July evening, with Daisy by his side. 

‘ I am very busy,’ Holgate answered, as he shook 
hands with the curate and stooped to pat Daisy’s 
fair cheek. ‘ I have my own work and Doctor 
Radcliffe’s to do, you know.’ 

‘ I heard he was off. It shows what un- 
bounded confidence he must have in you. It is 
twelve years since I came to the Haven, and 1 
have never known him take more than a day’s 
holiday.’ 

Holgate smiled. His relations with his colleague 
were wholly pleasant. They were like brothers in 
their work. 



139 



BRIAR AND PALM. 


140 

‘ I am glad he is enjoying his trip ; he deserves 
it. How is Mrs. Frew ? ’ 

‘ Not well ; I wish you would look up and see 
her. The warm weather tries her, and she will not 
go out. I wish you would try and impress upon 
her the necessity of spending a part of each day 
out of doors.’ 

‘ I shall look in this evening when I come back 
from the Rectory. I am going there now.’ 

‘ Ah, that is a sad case. Doctor Holgate ! Sick- 
ness of body and of mind. I am deeply sorry for 
that poor girl. She has a heavy cross.’ 

Holgate said nothing. The child Daisy, looking 
at him earnestly, for she loved him, saw a strange 
dark shadow creep over his face. 

‘ It is a sad case,’ was his brief reply. 

‘ I suppose there is no hope ? ’ said the curate 
inquiringly. ‘ What is the disease ? ’ 

‘ Paralysis of the spinal cord. It is only a matter 
of time. The state of irritation in which he keeps 
himself will shorten his days, that is all.’ 

‘ Do they intend remaining the summer here ? ’ 

‘ No one knows. They might leave to-day or 
to-morrow if Mr. Barham took it in his head,’ 
returned Holgate. ‘ I must go, Mr. Frew. I shall 
see you in an hour or so.’ 

‘ Did you know that Mr. Barham has refused to 
see me every time I have called ? ’ asked the curate, 
lingering a moment. 

‘ He told me so.’ 

‘ Poor fellow ! it shows a mind ill at ease, when 
the very thought of the messenger of the truth 


A JiEVELATION. 


141 

irritates him. The opportunity is yours, Doctor 
Holgate.’ 

‘ How ? ’ 

‘ I mean that it may he your duty to speak the 
word in season,’ said the curate, with a bright smile. 

Holgate reddened, and, stooping, laid his hand 
on Daisy’s sunny curls. 

‘ I see you often on the sands with Captain 
Silas, Miss Daisy. When will you take me for a 
stroll, eh ? ’ 

‘ Any time. Doctor Holgate,’ answered the child, 
smiling up into his face. 

‘ Your little maid needs a rose in her cheek, Mr. 
Frew,’ said the surgeon. ■ ‘ I think I must take her 
in hand. Would you take my drugs, Daisy ? ’ 

‘ If you told me they would do me good,’ 
answered the child in her grave, old-fashioned way • 
‘ and if they did not taste very badly.’ 

‘ I thought I had found a model child, but she 
has her conditions like the rest,’ laughed Holgate. 

‘ Good evening just now.’ 

‘•Good evening. You did not like my hint, 
Holgate,’ said the curate. 

‘ If I did not, it was because I felt that I was in 
as great or greater need than my patient, Mr. 
Frew,’ returned the surgeon almost bitterly, and, 
lifting his hat, strode away, leaving the curate to 
ponder on his words. 

Holgate quickened his pace, nodded to Captain 
Silas enjoying his evening pipe at his cottage door, 
and passed on to the Rectory gate. He felt his 
heart beat quicker as he strode up the leafy lane 


142 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


by the side of the church, and turned into the 
shrubbery which grew thickly before the house. 
The way had become very familiar to him ; he was 
sometimes at the Rectory three and four times 
in a day, whenever the squire in his whims sent 
for him. He remonstrated at first, saying he 
could do nothing ; but the squire had silenced 
him in his usual peremptory fashion, and there 
had been no more said about it. These visits 
were full of peculiar experiences for Hofgate, and 
were beginning to be things of moment in his 
life. 

He was shown directly up to the drawing-room, 
into which the invalid had been moved soon after 
his arrival. He did not know a moment’s rest ; 
and, had they given him his way, would have 
changed into a new room every day. Holgate, 
however, had absolutely forbidden any further 
change. In his hands Guy Barham was wonder- 
fully docile. His couch was drawn near to the 
low, wide window, from which there could be 
obtained a magnificent view of the sea and of the 
towns on the opposite coast. When the surgeon 
entered the room that evening, it was flooded by 
the radiance of the setting sun. The invalid was 
alone, and his face wore a wonderfully calm expres- 
sion. Perhaps something of the sunset peace and 
beauty had touched his fretful spirit. 

‘ Hulloa, Holgate ! sit down,’ he said, turning 
his head. ‘ Why didn’t you come sooner ? It’s 
confoundedly wearisome here when a fellow has 
only women to talk to.’ 


A REVELATION. 


143 


‘ I came when I could. I have other work to do, 
Mr. Barham,’ the surgeon answered pleasantly. 

‘ Ah, I suppose so. Poor sort of a life attending 
to sick folks. Don’t you get sick of it ? ’ 

‘ Never.’ 

‘ I don’t know how anybody in health can bear 
to have anything to do with it. I never could 
when I was well. Do you know what I was think- 
ing lying here, Holgate? How splendid the Dene 
will be looking just now ! Harvest will be in full 
swing, and the birds getting strong and wild for 
the Twelfth.’ 

Holgate could not help being touched by the 
words. The man’s heart was yearning over the 
old, stirring, active life, his old haunts and occupa- 
tions were constantly before him, taunting him 
with the free and happy past. But in a moment any 
feeling of sympathy vanished at the next words. 

‘ My wife is croaking about going back, but I 
won’t. I like this place. As well die here as 
anywhere else. It’ll be a relief to her when that 
comes ; you couldn’t tell her anything that would 
please her better.’ 

‘You are not just to Mrs. Barham, sir,’ he said 
quickly. He could not sit quietly and hear him 
speak of her in such a tone. 

‘ Oh, perhaps not. Of course you’ll take her 
side ; they all do, and think I’m a brute. They 
don’t know her as well as I do. You think I 
make a slave of her here, I suppose. I’ve seen 
you look as if you thought it. But she’s my wife, 
and she shall bear my burden, if I choose. 


144 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Holgate remained silent, because he could scarcely 
utter what was in his mind. It was a marvel to 
him that this man could be so oblivious to the 
self-sacrifice daily made for him by the magnitude 
of his wife’s devotion and care. 

‘ She’ll likely ask your advice about leaving this 
place, but you must back me up. If we were at 
Dene, she’d be in league with old Lady Kate, and 
they’d turn me over to the servants. Do you 
understand me ? ’ 

‘ I understand what you are saying.’ 

‘ And you’ll back me up ? ’ 

‘ Ah, I didn’t say that. It wouldn’t do you any 
harm to move to Scaris Dene. You are better 
than you were, Mr. Barham.’ 

‘ Am I ? but I can’t cure, can I ? ’ 

The surgeon shook his head. 

‘ How long have I to hang on in this style ? ’ 

‘I could hardly specify a time, Mr. Barham.’ 

‘ Oh, you won’t, that’s nearer the truth. You 
needn’t be afraid. If I were to hear I was to 
croak to-morrow, it would be the best news I ever 
heard in my life.’ 

Holgate was not a religious man, but it did 
occur to him to wonder whether Guy Barham had 
ever given a thought to that which is beyond. 

‘ I say. I’ve always been going to ask you some- 
thing,’ said Guy Barham, after intently studying 
the surgeon’s face for a few seconds. ‘ Where do 
you belong ? Are you a Lancashire man ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

Holgate’s colour rose in spite of himself. 


A hevelatwn: 


«45 


‘ Know anything of St. Cyrus, eh ? that precious 
nest where I got my mate. There’s a look of them 
about you sometimes ; yet it could hardly be.’ 

‘Your imagination is very brilliant, Mr. Barham.’ 

‘ Not singularly, — stranger things have happened. 
There were two brothers besides Fulke — Bevis and 
Denis. I thought you might be Denis Holgate’s 
son, that’s all. Your name’s Denis, isn’t it ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ Curious ; but I daresay it is only a coincidence. 
You couldn’t have belonged to that precious set 
and not have known it. They’ve the pride of a 
Czar among them. If you saw Fulke Holgate, 
you’d like to kick him, ninth baronet of St. Cyrus 
though he be.’ 

At that moment the door of the inner room 
was opened, and Mrs. Barham came out. As the 
surgeon turned to greet her, he could not but think 
how fair she was, and how very, very young. She 
was in white, a soft, heavy serge, clinging about her 
in straight, graceful folds. A scarlet geranium 
made a touch of colour at her throat, and seemed 
to give to her pale cheek a tinge of its own 
brilliance. Holgate wondered at his own feelings 
as he looked upon that fair, calm, womanly face. 
He knew that it was seldom absent from his mind, 
that she was bound up with every thought of his 
life. The physician was no longer master of the 
man. The daily picture of her absolute abnega- 
tion of self, her angel patience, her long-suffering 
and tender care for the man who called her wife, 
not knowing how great his privilege, had aroused 
13 


146 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


in the surgeon the highest instincts of manhood. 
He would have defended her, helped her, borne the 
burden for her, he would have stood between her a 
shield from every harsh word, but he had no right. 

His infinite compassion had become the cradle 
of another feeling, more deep and absorbing and 
bitter-sweet than any that had as yet touched his 
heart. If it could be called by the name of love, 
it could be nothing but ennobling, because it was 
wholly pure. He had never met with any one in 
the least like her; she had revealed to him a side of 
womanhood with which he had never come in con- 
tact, of the existence of which even he had not 
dreamed. He knew himself happy in her presence, 
but he looked at her face as one might look at the 
face of one far removed in goodness and purity. He 
did not himself know that he loved her, only he 
knew that she was a sweet revelation to him ; that 
she had awakened in him dreams and yearnings 
which had never touched him until he met her. 
She made him feel weak, erring, mean, and despic- 
able ; she had shown him the littleness of what he 
had set up and worshipped, She had made him 
ashamed, not of his past life, but of his part in it. 
She had given him kindly, pitiful, remorseful 
thoughts of his mother and of Rhoda, and yet she 
had not spoken very much to him. He had never 
had more than a few minutes’ talk with her, and 
that on the most general topics. • Is there not an 
influence ten thousand times more potent than any 
words, however high-sounding and eloquent, — the 
influence of a quiet, brave, patient Christian life ? 


A JiEVELATION. 


147 


Winifred Barham’s life, then, was a sweet and 
silent sermon, which had sunk deep into the heart 
of Holgate, awakening there impulses which had 
long lain dormant. 

‘ We think him much better, Doctor Holgate,’ 
she said in her quiet way. ‘ What if Crosshaven 
air, Guy, should work a miracle in your case ? ’ 

She stood by the couch and looked down upon 
him with sweet compassion in her eyes. But it 
was not the look he cared for. Guy Barham 
loved his wife, and he knew that he had not the 
power to awaken a responsive love in her heart. 
The wide difference in their tastes, habits, and 
disposition forbade it. There cannot be love where 
there is not a single thought in common. Not 
long after marriage Guy Barham had learned 
how Winifred Vivian had been coerced in the 
matter, and it had embittered him beyond measure. 
It was nothing to him that she was to him a quiet, 
gentle, obedient wife, who made his happiness her 
first care ; he looked at everything she did from a 
distorted point of view. His miserable jealousy 
and distrust made life a perpetual burden to her. 
Sometimes despair was in her heart. 

‘ Work a cure ! ’ he said, with his habitual sneer. 
‘ That would be a fine disappointment for you, 
wouldn’t it, Holgate ? I haven’t much hope of 
that, but I’ll live long enough to make you weary 
for my exodus, my lady ; I’ll live long enough to 
make a second marriage for you out of the ques- 
tion. Tell Lady Kate that, if you like, with my 
compliments.’ 


148 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Holgate saw her eyelids quiver, the only sign 
that she heard his insulting words. She had been 
made to feel keenly humiliated many times, not 
only in Holgate’s presence, but before the servants ; 
it mattered nothing to Guy Barham who was there 
to hear, he would make her colour rise and her 
eyes droop with shame. He called it paying her 
back for the deceit she had practised on him. He 
had forgotten the hot haste with which he had 
wooed and won her ; he had forgotten how she had 
told him plainly she had not learned to care for 
him, that she feared she never should; he had 
forgotten the reluctance with which her promise 
was given, how she had begged the marriage to be 
delayed until they had a firmer basis of afiection 
upon which to build their altar. Guy Barham’s 
memory was a convenient one, only retaining what 
was useful for himself. 

‘ I say, Holgate, has there ever been a cure for 
what I have ? ’ he asked, recurring to the subject 
as the surgeon was about to leave the room. 

‘ I have never known nor heard of one,’ he 
returned briefly. 

‘ How long will it be before I croak, eh ? ’ he 
repeated. ‘See how my lady listens, like a cat 
listening for a mouse. You’re a wise man to 
remain single and free, Holgate, for, by Jove, 
women-folks would lead you a pretty dance ! You 
needn’t go already.’ 

‘ I must I have to see Mrs. Frew, Mr. Bar- 
ham. Good-night’ 

‘ Is Mrs. Frew ill ? ’ asked Winifred. * I am 


A REVELATION. 


149 


sorry I have not had time to return her call. I 
am much occupied.’ 

‘ And better than you would be gadding about 
the parson’s house,’ interposed her husband rudely. 
‘ He has been here several times, — the parson, I 
mean. I daresay he thinks I need him, but I’m 
not going to pull a long face and read the Bible 
now. I’m neither a hypocrite nor a coward. You 
can tell the parson that, if you like, Holgate. 
What are you crying for, Win ? ’ 

She made no answer, but passed out of the room. 
There were moments when her heart entirely failed 
her ; this was one. 

Holgate did not prolong his stay. It cost him 
an effort to speak with courtesy to Guy Barham. 
With a curt good evening, he left the room, mentally 
resolving that he would let some days elapse before 
he came back. His visits did no good to any one, 
they certainly were no pleasure to him. 

As he took his hat from the hall table, the 
dining-room door was opened, and Mrs. Barham 
appeared. She was now quite calm, but very pale, 
and wistful, and sad. 

‘ Mr. Barham is better, is he not. Doctor 
Holgate ? ’ she asked. 

‘ He is certainly better than when he came to 
Crosshaven.’ 

‘ Do you think he could be taken home ? I am 
very anxious to be at home, near my grandmother. 
I feel as if this could not go on. Doctor Holgate.’ 

‘Indeed it cannot,’ he said, a trifle unsteadily. 

‘ I am afraid you are feeling very ill.’ 


BRIAR AND RAIM. 


150 

‘I am very tired,-’ she said. ‘ And the heart 
fails soiiiotiincs. 1 am very much alone here.’ 

‘ Few women would do as you have done, Mrs. 
Barham. It is to your splendid care your husband 
owes his present comparative ease.’ 

She smiled slightly. 

‘ I have tried to be firm, and I think his craving 
for morphia is nearly killed. It only troubles him 
occasionally. It was a hard struggle. I do not 
think I could go through it again.’ She drew a 
quick breath, as if the memory of it caught her 
heart. ‘ Will you tell me, please, how the disease 
will progress ? ’ 

‘ The paralysis will creep upward till it reaches 
the heart, Mrs. Barham,’ answered the surgeon 
briefly. 

‘ How long ? ’ 

‘ The time varies. Mr. Barham has a splendid 
constitution, and, unless some complication arise, 
he may live a year or two, or even three years.’ 

‘ I pray that he may be spared until he is a 
changed man,’ she said, more to herself than to 
him. After a moment she raised her sad eyes and 
fixed them full on the surgeon’s face. 

‘Doctor Holgate, our way of life is laid very 
bare before you. You will respect it, will you not ? 
I could not bear that any one should know, except 
yourself.’ 

Holgate’s colour rose. He was deeply hurt. 

‘ God forbid ! Give me credit for common sense, 
Mrs. Barham, if for nothing else,’ he said quickly. 

‘ I have wronged you,’ she said hurriedly ; ‘indeed 


A REVELATION. 


15 ' 

T scarcely know at times what I say or how I act. 
I am over-driven. Pray for me, that I may have 
patience, that I may not have hard thoughts. He 
needs all our pity and our care.’ 

The words were wrung from her. She was 
indeed, as she said, over-driven in mind and body. 
Holgate did not trust himself to speak. For the 
first time in their acquaintance, their hands met in 
a close, sympathetic clasp. And immediately he 
left the house. He was glad to be out of doors, to 
feel the fresh sea wind blowing about him. If it 
could only blow away the dark thoughts with 
which his heart was riven ! As he emerged from 
the shadow of the leafy lane, a fly came rattling 
along the dusty road from the station. As it 
passed, he glanced at it carelessly, wondering 
whether it had brought the first summer visitor 
to the Haven. There was a pile of luggage on the 
box, and looking out from the side glass was the 
face of Lydia Bolsover. 




CHAPTER XIL 

A GENTLE HEART. 

* Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow, 

Be living green upon the sward ? ^ 

Christina Eossetti. 

APTAIN SILAS came leisurely up the 
street, staff in hand, keeping an eye on 
the road down which his little favourite 
might be expected to come. Their even- 
ing strolls had not been so regular of late ; Mrs. 
Frew not being well, the care of the baby fell upon 
Daisy. She was willing, dear heart, but not able 
for the task. Captain Silas shaded his eyes from 
the sun, and looked up the slope to Woodbine 
Cottage, but there was no sign of his little friend, 
The road was quite deserted, but in the lane leading 
to the Rectory a lady was walking to and fro in 
the sun, with a slow and listless step. After his 
leisurely survey Captain Silas strolled up the street 
to the ‘ Boot and Shoe.’ His face wore a singularly 
restful and happy expression, the look of one at 
peace with God and man. His life work was 
done, as he often said, and he was only wait- 

152 




A GENTLE HEART, 


153 


ing the happy gale which would waft him into 
port. 

‘A foine evenin’, Cicely,’ he called out heartily, 
when more than a hundred yards from the inn. 

‘ A foine evenin’ ! ’ Cicely answered back, but 
without her usual heartiness. Captain Silas missed 
the cheerful ring in her voice, and, looking at her 
face, saw that it wore a troubled expression. Cicely 
must be out of sorts, a rare thing for her. 

‘A’ weel in th’ “Boot an’ Shoe,” Cicely?’ asked 
the Captain, pausing at the door. 

‘ A’ weel. How’s thysen, Cap’n ? Th’ world usin’ 
tha weel, eh ? ’ 

‘ Ay, nivver better, tho’ I’m gettin’ as owd an’ 
battered as th’ Lucy Wright, bless her ! Thou’s 
getten a stranger to th’ “ Boot an’ Shoe,” I’m towd. 
Cicely.’ 

Cicely nodded, and her face darkened. She 
stepped back, closed the inner door, and then came 
out and leaned up against the porch. 

‘ Ay, I’ve getten whoam Mary Anne’s gel, 
Cap’n, an’ it winna work, I see. She ain’t like 
Mary Anne, who wur alius as soft as a pat o’ 
butter i’ July. Hoo’s her feyther’s gel, Cap’n, an’ 
hoo winna suit me nor Sutton.’ 

‘ That’s bad. Cicely. I heerd th’ lads sayin’ hoo 
wur a gradely foine lass too.’ 

Cicely laughed, a short, significant laugh. 

‘ Th’ Haven lads may save themsens th’ trouble, 
tell ’em fra me. Miss Bolsover winna look their 
way. She’s after higher game. I mun speak to 
tha, Cap’n Silas ; there noan a safe cretur i’ th’ 


*34 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


place but tliyscn to tell a thing to, an’ I durstna 
mention her name to Sutton; he’s as mad as can 
be. 1 loo’s eftcr the young doctor, Cup’n. Didua 
1 tell thee he wur at Waveney, wheer Mary Anne 
lived, afore he coom here ? ’ 

‘ I moind summat on it. Cicely.’ 

‘ IIoo says hoo’s to marry him. But hoo’s been 
here three days, an’ he’s nivver looked nigh. That 
doesna look very loike marryin’, does it, Cap’n ? ’ 

‘ Noan, it doesn’t. I thought tha sister’s lass 
wur a scliool-teacher. Cicely.’ • 

‘ So hoo wur, silly cretur, so hoo wur ; fifty pound 
a year, an’ house-room found. Her mother died, 
ov coorse, but that wur noan reason why hoo should 
throw away her bread. Hoo says hoo’s come to pay 
us a long visit, hoo does. I wur vera near tellin’ 
her hoo moight have waited till hoo wur asked.’ 

‘Thou’s sore ruffled th’ wrang way. Cicely; I 
nivver seed tha’ so put out,’ said the Captain, with 
real concern. Cicely and he were old and warm 
friends, each had proved the other’s worth. 

‘ I tell tha I conna bear’d, an’ I winna. Hoo’s 
not lift a hand to help. Tha should ha’ seen her 
turn up her nose when I axed her to help at table 
for tha men t’other neet. Sutton wiiina stand it, 
either. He’s quiet, but he con say a bit sharp 
word, an’ he will to Lyddy afore she’s mony days 
owder. Hoo’s jes’ her feyther, as I said. Thou’s 
heerd me speak o’ Bolsover. If tha had known 
him, Cap’n, he’d a’ made tha sick. Mary Anne 
would ha’ crawled on her very knees to serve 
him. Mony a time have I towd her, I wished I 


A GENTLE HEART. 


*55 


had her chance, I’d made a better mon o’ him. 
He wur jes’ a great, ugly, domineerin’ lump. Me 
an’ him didna pu’ thagither. He knawed I saw 
through him. The gel has all his pride an’ his close 
way. Hoo didna tell me aboot th’ doctor ; I had to 
foind that out, an’ it about turned my stomach.’ 

‘What turned your stomach. Aunt Cicely?’ 
asked a cool, calm, sw'eet voice, and the inner door 
opened, and a tall, womanly figure in white 
appeared on the threshold. Her eyebrows were 
slightly arched, a cool, amused smile played about 
her well-formed mouth. She had overheard the 
greater part of her aunt’s speech, and they knew it. 

‘ This is my niece, Lyddy Bolsover, fra Waveney, 
Cap’n,’ said Cicely, with reddening face. 

‘ Happy to see tha, miss, for tha aunt’s sake. 
Her an’ me’s owd friends,’ said the Captain, taking 
off his hat and offering his weather-beaten hand. 
Miss Bolsover gave a cool little nod, but took no 
notice of the offered hand. 

‘ Is that a’ th’ manners thy school-teachin’s taught 
tha, Lyddy ? ’ asked her aunt severely. ‘ Doesna tha 
see Cap’n Silas offerin’ ta shake hands wi’ tha ? ’ 

‘ I bowed to Captain Silas, Aunt Cicely ; good 
manners required no more,’ said Lydia. ‘ May I 
go for a stroll on these lovely marshes ? they look 
so tempting.’ 

‘ If tha wur civil, Lyddy, th’ Cap’n moight offer 
fur to tak’ tha himsen. He knaws ivvry bit o’ 
them fra Hesketh to Formby, and ivvry bit o? 
grass that blows on th’ sand-hills knaws him.’ 

‘ Oh, I’U not trouble him ; I am not particularly 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


156 

interested in the grass. Good-evening, Captain ; 
thanks all the same,’ said Lydia, and walked away 
from the door, putting up her white lace sunshade, 
which had a black bow on it to match the ribbons 
on her muslin gown. 

‘ Hoo is a foine lass an’ no mistak’. Cicely,’ said 
the Captain, looking after her admiringly. ‘ The 
doctor moight do worse. They’d mak’ a gradely 
couple ; doesna tha think so ? ’ 

‘ Well enough, well enough ; but it’ll nivver be. 
It’s on’y to thysen, Cap’n Silas, I durst whisper that 
I doubt he’s lost his heart somewheer else, wheer 
he had noan bezniss ta lose it. Hoo’s a dear, sweet, 
lieart-broken cretur at th’ Rectory, Cap’n.’ 

‘ Tha conna mean that that foine young chap 
has lost hissel’ to another mon’s wife. Cicely ? ’ said 
the Captain, shaking his grey head doubtfully. 

‘ I mean jes’ that, Cap’n.’ 

‘ I durstna believe it on him. Cicely. He’s a 
foine chap. Him an’ me’s had mony a good talk, an’ 
I nivver seen noan nonsense aboot him. He’s often 
there, but it’s th’ squire. They do say thcer’s noan 
livin’ wi’ him. I see’ that young choild, his wife, 
walkin’ i’ the lane. It’s a soar handful for her, poor 
lass.’ 

‘ Ay, it is ; but I mun tell tha how I fand oot 
aboot th’ doctor, Cap’n. He wur in here wan neet, 
an’ I happen’t to say summat aboot her sudden 
loike, an’ at that vera minit hoo went by the door, 
an’ I seed it in his face. God help tha, lad ! said I in 
my heart, an’ I nivver spak o’t, noan even to Sutton. 
He’d a’ laughed at me, but I wurna mista’en.’ 


A GENTLE HEART. 


157 

‘ Ay, ay ; tha had need to say God help th’ lad, 
if it be true, Cicely, fur it’s a soar thing fur mon 
or woman to set theer hearts wheer there’s noan 
hope. I hope theer’s that in oor young doctor. 
Cicely, that’ll mak’ a mon o’ him i’ this trouble 
then. I hev gradely hopes ov him ; I think he’ll 
trample it underfoot.’ 

* I hope so. Theer’s Sutton cornin’. That Sally 
ov ours is getten beyant ivvrything wi’ laziness. 
I see her hobnobbin wi’ thy Jerry whiles on th’ 
sand-hills ; I believe she’s larnt some o’ his foine 
tricks,’ said Cicely humorously, and with a nod 
she went in-doors to see that the kettle was boiling 
for Sutton’s tea. Captain Silas continued his slow 
course up the street, stopping every few minutes for 
a word with a neighbour, or to pat a little child on the 
head. The very dogs came smelling kindly about his 
feet, recognising in him a protector and a friend. 

While Captain Silas was taking his solitary 
walk, little Daisy, having succeeded in singing the 
fretful baby tjo sleep, stole out of doors, intending 
to run down and see her old friend. But as she 
was speeding down the middle of the road, the 
lady walking alone in the Kectory Lane saw her, 
and, leaning over the gate, smiled and asked her to 
come and speak to her. 

‘ You are Mr. Frew’s little girl, I think ? ’ she 
said ; and her voice was so sweet that it sounded 
like music in the child’s ears. 

‘ Yes, I am Daisy Frew,’ she an.swered, smiling 
too. She had never seen anything so lovely as 
this sweet lady in her robe of clinging white. 


BJiUH AND PALM. 


*58 

with the sunlight on her face and in her golden 
hair. 

‘ Is your mamma better, dear ? I heard she was 
very ill.’ 

Instantly the child’s face grew very grave. 

‘ Oh no I mamma is very ill. She lies in bed 
all day, so quiet and still. Papa sits by her all 
the time, and I keep baby, and try to get the boys 
to be quiet.’ 

‘ You ! Poor little tender mite ! you are only a 
baby yourself. And how old is this baby you keep ? ’ 

‘ Baby is eleven months ; he is a dear baby, but 
so lazy. He won’t even sit good by himself.! 

‘ And do you carry him about yourself ? ’ 

‘ Yes, there is no one else.’ 

‘ Does it not tire you % ’ 

‘ Sometimes my back aches, and if papa sees, he 
makes me give baby to Martha, or takes him him- 
self. But I don’t like that. Papa has a great deal 
to do, and is often tired and sad.’ 

‘ Your unselfishness shames me, Daisy,’ said 
Mrs. Barham, and the tears stood in her eyes. 

‘ I don’t quite know what you say, ma’am,’ said 
Daisy shyly, wondering to see tears in the lady’s 
eyes. 

‘ Shall 1 teU you ? I was feeling very sad and 
very weary and discontented, my darling, and I 
have learned from you that I have been wrong.’ 

‘ Have you a great deal to do, and does your 
back ache ? ’ asked Daisy timidly. ‘ I think it must, 
your face is so white.’ 

‘ My heart aches, dear, and that is worse than 


A GENTLE HEART. 


159 


my back/ answered Winifred, with a faint smile. 

‘ May I kiss you ? ’ 

‘ If you please,’ answered Daisy, and uplifted her 
sweet thin face very willingly to the beautiful one 
above her. 

‘ Do you think you could come down some day 
and have tea with me ? The strawberries are 
ripening in the garden already.’ 

‘ Oh, are they ? I couldn’t come tUl mamma is 
better, and baby tries to walk ; I have charge of 
him, you know.’ 

‘ You poor little mite ! ’ repeated Winifred Barham 
pitifully. ‘ You must be your father’s pet, I think.’ 

‘ I’m his sunbeam and his heart’s comfort, he 
says,’ answered the child simply. ‘ May I go now ? 
I am going to see Captain Silas. Do you know 
Captain Silas ? ’ 

‘ Is that the old fisherman, with the lame leg and 
the stick, who lives down in yon little cottage ? ’ 

‘ That’s 'him. He’s my chum, papa says. I 
love him next to papa. He knows everything ; I 
know a lot of things he has told me. I know 
where the sea-daisies come out first on the sand- 
hills. They’ll be there now, only I haven’t been 
down since mamma was ill. Good-bye.’ 

‘ Good-bye, my darling. Tell Captain Silas he 
must spare you to me one day. I shall want a 
long visit,’ said Winifred, kissing the child again. 

She watched her out of sight, and then, acting on 
a sudden impulse, she, passed out into the road, and 
began to ascend the slope to the curate’s house. 
She had no gloves on her hands, and wore a garden 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


i6o 

hat, with a bunch of early flowers in her belt. In 
that girlish garb she looked very young, yet there 
w'as a sad, proud dignity about her too, which 
seemed to tell that she had had some experience 
of life. A few minutes’ walk brought her to the 
gate of Woodbine Cottage. It was open, and she 
entered at once, looking almost compassionately 
round at the poor neglected garden, so different 
from the trim, well-kept borders at the Rectory. 

The door was open, and the fretful wailing of a 
baby greeted her as she approached it. After she 
had knocked twice, an untidy maid appeared, look- 
iijg as cross as could be. 

‘ Can I see Mr. Frew ? ’ the lady asked kindly. 

‘ I dunno, but yo’ can come in or I see. Theer’s 
trouble i’ th’ hoose ; the missus is laid up. Yo’ 
didna’ see a little gel on the road, did yo’ ? ’ 

‘ I met little Miss Frew on the way.’ 

‘ I wonner wheer she’s flyin’ to noo. She mun 
keep that choild ; I’m noan fit to do a’ that’s to be 
done. I’m nigh trotted ofi" ma legs, I tell yo’, 
ma’am,’ said Martha complainingly, as she led the 
way to the sitting-room. The baby was there, 
fretfully wailing, and making strenuous efforts to 
get out of his cradle. Martha lifted him with no 
gentle hand, and gave him a cross shake, as she 
bade him be quiet. 

‘ Give him to me while you see your master. If 
he can leave Mrs. Frew, say Mrs. Barham would be 
glad to see him for a few minutes.’ 

‘ I durstna leave th’ choild wi’tha. He’s that cross, 
an’ see his pinny. I ain’t fit to wash for ’em all.’ 


A GENTLE HEART. j6i 

‘ Never mind, go now,’ said Mrs. Barham firmly, 
and Martha felt impelled to obey. * Pleased perhaps 
with the sweet smile and bright eyes of his new 
nurse, the child sat still on her knees, looking up 
with round, wondering eyes into her face. 

He was a pretty child, but delicate and uncared 
for ; out of her pity for him Winifred Barham 
could forget the soiled pinaTore, the sticky, un- 
washed face, the tangled curls. He was sitting 
quietly on her knee playing with the bunch of 
seals at her watch-chain when Martha returned to 
say her master would be down presently. 

‘ All right,’ said Winifred Barham, with a pleasant 
nod. ‘ I shall keep baby till Mr. Frew comes down, 
and perhaps by that time Daisy will have come back.’ 

Nothing loth, Martha retired, but in a few 
minutes there was another smart knock at the 
front door, and the noise of some one entering and 
going up-stairs. After an interval, Mr. Frew came 
down and entered the sitting-room. He started, 
and his pale face flushed at sight of the child on 
Mrs. Barham’s knee. 

‘ Good evening, Mr. Frew. You see I am having 
a new experience,’ she said, with a swift bright smile 
which put him at his ease at once. ‘ Forgive my 
calling, but I saw your little daughter in the lane, 
and she told me how ill Mrs. Frew is. I came to 
express my sympathy, and to ask if I could do 
anything. Does she need wine or anything ? Nay, 
don’t look distressed. What is the use of these 
things to us if we cannot make them of use to others? 
It will be a real kindness to me.’ 

14 


[62 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ I thank you. Your sympathy is very sweet, 
madam,’ said the curate, and now that the flush 
had left his face, she saw its haggard paleness. 

‘ How is your husband to-day ? ’ 

‘ Much as usual, thank you,’ she said, and bent 
her head low over the child on her knee. ‘ 1 left 
him asleep, and stole out for a touch of the sun- 
shine. One gets weary in-doors on such a day as 
this. But tell me about Mrs. Frew,’ 

‘ She is very ill,’ answered the curate, passing his 
hand wearily across his brow. ‘ I fear there is no 
h(»pe. When I think of my five children, Mrs, 
Barham, I am unmanned.’ 

‘ What does the doctor say ? If any change 
would do good, if he recommends anything money 
can buy, pray do not hesitate, Mr. Frew,’ said 
Winifred Barham, her eyes shining in her earnest- 
ness. ‘ It would be nothing to me, nothing in 
comparison with the help you have given me from 
Sabbath to Sabbath. For Daisy’s sake, then, if for 
no other reason. She read me a lesson in patience 
this very evening in the lane,’ 

A gleam of love for the absent child lit up the 
curate’s pale features. 

‘ Many a lesson, Mrs. Barham, has Daisy read to 
me. She is thoughtful beyond her years. Some- 
times she weighs upon my heart. Life has many 
cares ; but for the thought, the certainty that we lie 
in a loving Hand, human hearts would fail. You too, 
I think, have often felt it.’ 

‘ Oh, I liave — I do overj^ dn)’^ I live ! Sometimes I 
cannot l)car it,’ said Winifred Baiham passionately. 


A GENTLE HEART. 163 

‘ But I shall try to keep what you say always green 
in my heart.’ 

At that moment there was another tread on the 
stair, the door was opened, and Doctor Holgate 
entered. He started back at sight of Mrs. Barham. 
His surprise was very marked. Her colour 
heightened a little as she bade him good evening. 
Holgate himself seemed a trifle embarrassed. 

‘ Mrs. Barham is acting the Good Samaritan to 
this neglected household, doctor,’ said the curate, 
with a smile. ‘ Well, how did you find my wife 
to-day % ’ 

‘ Not weaker. There is little change, but she is 
very languid. I wish I could rouse her, Mr. Frew,’ 
said the surgeon gravely. ‘ Where is our little 
nursemaid to-day ? ’ 

‘ I met her on her way to see Captain Silas,’ said 
Winifred Barham. 

‘ Ay, ay, she misses her old friend ; they are 
very fond of each other. Must you go now , Mrs. 
Barham ? Come then, you rogue,’ Gilbert Frew 
added to the child. ‘ I don’t wonder you are 
subdued, my boy. Won’t you leave your charm 
behind you? Daisy would be glad of it some- 
times.’ 

‘ I must come up again and do what I can. 
Good evening, Mr. Frew. You will grant my 
request, will you not ? It is so little we can do in 
this world to help each other.’ 

The curate wrung her hand. Her sweet sym- 
pathy, the outcome of a true womanly nature, was 
very precious to him. Holgate had little to say. 


164 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


He even walked half-way down the slope to the 
Rectory Lane without uttering a word. Why ? 
Because he was unutterably happy. He knew that 
to be near this gracious presence was sufficient. 

‘ What hope is there for Mrs. Frew ? ’ she asked 
at length, not embarrassed by the silence. She felt 
at home with him. He had been a true friend to 
her in her need. She was grateful, as yet nothing 
more. 

‘ Very little. She will not even make up her 
mind to get well. There is a great deal in the will, 
Mrs. Barham.’ 

‘ I believe that.’ 

‘ Has Mr. Barham been asking for me to-day ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes, more than once. Will you look in this 
evening ? ’ 

‘ I hardly think it. I do no good, Mrs. Barham.’ 

‘ Oh, you do. We look forward to your visits ; I 
should miss you. Doctor Holgate.’ 

‘ Should you ? ’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

She uplifted her sweet, clear eyes unfalteringly to 
his face. Pie averted his from that look. 

‘ Who is this lady in white coming up the road ? 
The first of the summer comers to the Haven, eh ? ’ 
she said lightly. 

Holgate started. 

‘ No, that is Cicely Sutton’s niece. Will you 
excuse me leaving you here, Mrs. Barham ? I know 
her, and I must speak with her for a moment.’ 



CHAPTER XIII. 

A WOMAN SCORNED. 

* When the lute is broken, 

Sweet tones are remembered not ; 

When the lips have spoken, 

Loved accents are soon forgot.^ 

Shetj.et. 

RS. BARHAM shook hands with IIol- 
gate and turned into the Rectory Lane. 
He proceeded down the road, and met 
Lydia Bolsover face to face. She put 
down her parasol, and gave her head a slight bow. 

‘ How do you do 1 ’ was all she said. 

‘Won’t you shake hands with me. Miss Bol- 
sover?’ he asked lamely. A feeling of intense 
discomfort possessed him. She was so cool, so 
self-possessed. She had certainly the advantage of 
him. He knew he had not treated her well, and 
felt small in her presence. 

‘ Not just now. You are not very pleased, i 
think, to see me. Doctor Holgate. I shall be sorry 
if I make Crosshaven unpleasant for you ; but my 
mother is dead, and I could not stay in Waveney ; 
I had nowhere else to go.’ 

165 




1 66 


BR/AR AND PALM. 


She spoke quite quietly, but with a thinly- veiled 
sarcasm. Her eyes, too, had a curious gleam, her 
lips curled, her voice had a hard ring in it. She 
was suffering more keenly than he knew o£ He 
did not do her justice. 

‘ Why should you make Crosshaven uncomfort- 
able for me, Lydia ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Miss Bolsover, if you please,’ she said coldly. 
‘ I will not detain you. No doubt your time is 
valuable.’ 

‘ I am not in a hurry. Will you walk a little 
way with me, Lydia ? ’ 

‘ If you have anything to say to me, you may 
say it now. I have been on the shore for an hour, 
and have tired of it. I intended going up tliis 
way for a change.’ 

She was not speaking the strict truth. From 
the sand-hills behind Silas Eimmer’s cottage she 
had seen Holgate go up the road and enter Wood- 
bine Cottage, and had come purposely to meet him. 
Her heart had hungered to hear him speak ; but 
he did not dream of it. 

As she spoke she put up her sunshade again 
and began to walk on, Holgate accompanying 
her. Winifred Barham, looking round from tlie 
farther end of the lane, saw them ascend the 
slope together. They said nothing till they had 
passed Woodbine Cottage, and then the road 
was very quiet and secluded, with trees on either 
side. 

‘ I have not behaved well to you, Lydia,’ he said 
in a low voice, and very humbly ; for he was con- 


A WOMAN SCOHNED. 


167 


scious of his own shortcomings, and was willing 
to admit it with manly honesty. Lately Denis 
Ilolgate had begun to examine himself, to look 
unpleasant truths straight in the face, with the 
result that his self-conceit was now considerably 
lowered. The people with whom he had come in 
close contact were influencing him for good. They 
had shown him how lovely a thing is an unselfish 
heart. 

‘ No, you have not behaved well to me. I 
wonder you dare look me in the face, Denis Ilol- 
gate,’ said the woman by his side, with a slight 
touch of passion. ‘ I am entitled to some explana- 
tion. I may as well tell you that brought me to 
Crosshaven. What have you to say ? ’ 

Holgate was silent for a moment. How bitterly 
he regretted the folly of those foolish days at 
Waveney ! How he marvelled that he could ever 
have made love to this cold, scornful, strong-minded 
woman ! He was in a curious position. Convicted 
of a grave mistake, he walked by Lydia Bolsover’s 
side as a culprit might walk by the side of the 
judge who he knows must sentence and condemn 
him. 

‘ I do not know what to say to you, Lydia, 
except that I deeply regret the past.’ 

‘ Then you have changed towards me ? ’ she 
asked quietly, and bit her lip to still its rebellious 
quiver. 

‘ I think we both made a mistake,’ he answered. 

‘ That is the usual form in which a man draws 
back from such an engagement,’ she said in high. 


68 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


ringing tones. ‘ But I believe you fire right. We 
both made a mistake.’ 

‘ I was wholly and entirely to blame,’ said Denis 
TIolgate hurriedly. ‘ I spoke to you without 
thinking words which ought never to have been 
uttered. I was thoughtless and foolish, and I 
fancied I cared for you.’ 

‘ But you know better now ? ’ 

* I will tell you honestly, Lydia ; it will be 
better for us both. I do not care for you as a man 
should care for the woman he would make his wife.’ 

‘ You have made the discovery too late, Doctor 
Ilolgate,’ said Lydia Bolsover in her quietest, most 
self-possessed manner. 

He looked at her inquiringly, not quite under- 
standing her. 

‘ How too late ? We can remedy it yet. It is 
a great wrong to marry without love.’ 

‘ So they say. Well, she is lovely enough. I 
do not wonder her beauty made you forget )^our 
allegiance to me. She is like a queen.’ 

‘ What do you mean ? Whom are you talking 
about ? ’ Holgate asked hurriedly, with flushing 
face, 

‘ About her — the woman from whom you parted 
at the Rectory Lane — the woman whom you love 
with your whole soul. Do not trouble to deny it 
I saw it in your face.’ 

‘ Do you know who the lady was from whom I 
parted at the gate 1 ’ 

‘ Oh yes, I know very well who she is. Mrs. 
Barham of Scaris Dene. He is very ill, they say, 


A WOMAN SCORNED. 


169 


and cannot live ; so that obstacle will be soon 
removed. Then she is your half-cousin, is she not ? 
one of your order ; a fitter mate for you than the 
Waveney schoolmistress. Oh yes, I understand it 
all quite well.’ 

‘ Lydia, as I live, she knows nothing about me I 
She regards me simply as her husband’s medical 
adviser. How dare you hint at such a thing? 
You wrong the sweetest and best woman in the 
world 1 ’ he exclaimed in passionate indignation. 

‘ I was once the best woman in the world to you ; 
and if you were married to her to-morrow, you 
would see some one else who realized what you call 
your ideal. That is your way. It would be no 
compliment to be your wife, Denis Holgate.’ 

‘ I shall never marry.’ 

‘ Yes, you will.’ 

She stood still in the shadow of a branching lime 
and looked him straight in the face. They were 
now out of sight of the Haven, and there was not 
a living creature but themselves on the quiet road. 

‘ Am I to understand, then, that you wish to 
have nothing more to do with me, that you cancel 
all your promises and vows of a year ago?’ she 
asked calmly. ‘ You wish to be off with the old 
love before you are on with the new. Pray be 
honest. I like plain dealing. I am not one to say 
one thing and mean another. Try to imitate me 
in that for once.’ 

It was a humiliating position for a man. Un- 
doubtedly she had the best of it ; and she looked 
as if she enjoyed her triumph. Her face was pale, 

l.i 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


1 70 

Inr lips firm, with a half smile upon them, her 
c}’es gleaming stedfastly upon his face. 

Denis Holgate did not know what to say or how 
to act. All womanhood was beautiful and sacred to 
him now for the sake of one. A great love had added 
a finer touch to his nature. He was anxious to do 
right, to atone, if he could, for what he had made 
this woman suffer. He could see that she was in 
pain now, for her brows were drawn ; but she would 
have died rather than have admitted it in words. 

‘ God knows, Lydia, I will do what I can. I 
ha\'e been in the wrong. I am in your hands.’ 

‘ I know you are,’ she said quietly. ‘ Then let 
me speak. I have had something to bear in 
AVaveney on your account. Mrs. Wagram and her 
set have not made my path one of roses lately. I 
have given up my situation for you. I have no- 
thing in the world, no home, no friends. Aunt 
Cicely and her boor of a husband only tolerate me 
at the “ Boot and Shoe.” I shall not stay there. 
Before I go I must have some understanding with 
you. You asked me last year to be your wife, and 
I consented. I have not released you from your 
promise, and I do not intend to do so.’ 

‘ Very well, then, I shall marry you ; but you 
understand that I do not care for you as a man 
cares for the woman he would make his wife.’ 

‘ So you have been careful to tell me already,’ 
she said sharply. ‘There is no need to repeat it. 
I daresay we shall be as happy as the most of 
married people in this world.’ 

‘ I shall do my duty,’ Holgate answered quietly 


A WOMAN SCORNED. 


171 


but coldly, and, turning, began to walk back 
towards the town. She had won, but victory was 
not sweet. Her heart was breaking with its agony 
of yearning, its passion of pain. Denis Holgate had 
not done well to awaken this wild, throbbing heart to 
the passionate life of love ; it had been one of the 
gravest mistakes of his life. His heart sank as he 
walked by her side ; the thought of passing his life 
with her was very dark. But he tried to beat 
down these sad thoughts, he tried even to think 
of her with something of the kindliness of long ago. 
But it was not easy; the struggle kept him silent as 
they walked along the dusty road together. She was 
silent too. Walking with her eyes fixed on the ground. 

‘I must go in and see Mrs. Frew again, I think. 
She is far spent. I will bid you good-night here, 
Lydia,’ he said quietly when they reached the gate 
of Woodbine Cottage. ‘ I shall come down and see 
your aunt and uncle to-morrow. The sooner the 
matter is settled the better now.’ 

‘ Very well,’ she said. 

* Will you shake hands with me, Lydia % ’ She 
gave him a passive hand, which he clasped a moment, 
and then, bending forward, touched her brow with 
his lips. Instantly the hot colour swept over her 
face in a crimson wave. 

‘ Never do that again. I don’t wish you to make 
a hypocrite of yourself.’ 

‘ Lydia, if there is to be even the semblance of 
goodwill or peace between us, you must meet me 
half way,’ he said sadly. ‘ There was no hypocrisy 
in what I did Are we not friends ? ’ 


172 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


The tears rose in her eyes. She was conquered. 
Her heart overflowed. 

Ht is my pain to love you too well, Denis Holgatel’ 
she said, and turned sobbing from him. He could 
not follow her then for there were people in sight, 
so he entered the cottage gate with an aching heart. 
Life was beginning to be touched with bitter pain 
for Denis Holgate. The door was wide open to 
admit the pleasant air of the summer evening. 
Holgate tapped lightly at it, and then walked into 
the dining-room. The sight there touched him. 
The child Daisy walking to and fro the room croon- 
ing a low song to the baby she was hushing to 
sleep in her arms. Her little face had a slight red 
flush on it, her eyes were heavy and tired, her 
step slow and listless. 

She smiled slightly, put her finger on her lip, 
and then laid the baby down, covering him up, ay, 
more carefully than his mother could have done. 
Then she stepped lightly across the room and stood 
by the doctor’s knee. She loved him, why she did 
not know. 

‘ Mamma has fallen asleep, and papa is in the 
study at his sermon,’ she whispered. ‘ He is so 
tired ! I wish I could make sermons for him.’ 

‘ You would do everybody’s work, Daisy. Your 
heart is big enough,’ he answered absently, and 
stroked away the curls which shaded her earnest 
eyes. ‘ I will not stay now then. Tell papa I 
shall come up a little later in the evening.’ 

‘ I’ll come out with you to the gate ; I want to 
tell you something,’ said the child, and, slipping her 


A WOMAN SCORNED. 


173 


slender hand in his, she led him out into the pleasant 
garden. ‘ As I was going down to Captain 
Silas’s a little ago I saw the lady at the Eectory. 
She asked me to talk to her, and she kissed me too. 
Can you tell me why she is so sad ? ’ 

‘ She has many cares, Daisy. They weigh upon 
her heart.’ 

The child turned her eyes away to the soft blue 
line of the distant sea, and watched the golden 
shafts cast upon it by the setting sun. The mys- 
tery of life was sinking into her being ; she had 
grown weary in her young childhood pondering 
upon the sorrows and the cares of those around her. 
Holgate felt the slight hand tremble in his own. 

‘ What is it, Daisy ? ’ he asked very gently. 

‘ Papa says God knows all dbout us, and that He 
loves us very much. It must grieve Him that 
every one suffers. Have you cares too, Doctor 
Holgate ? ’ 

‘Ay, child, bitter cares,’ answered Holgate quickly. 
‘ I have been very wrong and very wicked. I am 
trying, Daisy, to be a better man.’ 

‘ Oh, I do not think you can be that I Papa loves 
you very much ; you are so kind to everybody. 
I love you, Doctor Holgate,’ added the child shyly, 
looking up into his face. 

‘ God bless you, Daisy ! you are an angel in this 
place,’ said Holgate, with emotion, and, bending 
down, he touched the pure brow with his lips, and 
then went his way. 

Two hours later he was summoned in hot haste 
to Woodbine Cottage. He found the curate’s wife 


174 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


very ill, and slightly delirious. He saw at once 
that there was no hope. Gilbert Frew was sitting 
by the bedside in an attitude of hopeless despair. 
His sensitive nature was writhing keenly with un- 
availing remhrse. He had never in his life uttered 
a harsh or reproachful word to his wnfe, but there 
had been times when he had felt weary and im- 
patient of her careless housekeeping, her poor fulfil- 
ment of the duties of wife and mother. These 
thoughts now stabbed the curate to the heart like a 
two-edged sword. • If he had only been kinder, 
more helpful, more faithful, with her, he said to 
himself accusingly, he could have better borne to 
have her taken away. 

Holgate laid his hand on his shoulder, and the 
curate turned his head and raised a haggard face to 
his. 

‘ Can you do nothing % ’ he asked imploringly. 

Holgate shook his head. His heart was wrung 
with the man’s anguish. Never had he felt so 
keenly how little he knew, how very slight was his 
boasted power. He stood helpless at the approach 
of death. 

‘ Are you there, Gilbert ? ’ 

‘ Yes, Hetty, I am here,’ said the curate breath- 
lessly, thankful for that brief gleam of recognition. 

‘ I am going to die, Gilbert, am I not ? ’ 

‘ I fear, my darling, nothing more can be done,’ 
he answered in a whisper. 

She closed her eyes a moment, her pale lips 
moved, then she opened them and fixed them on 
her husband’s face. 


A WOMAN SCORNED. 


175 


Holgate stepped lightly across the room and 
looked out of the window across the sea, where 
already the young moon had lit a silvered pathway. 

‘ I have been a poor wife to you, Gilbert. I wish 
I had been better. But you forgive me, do you not?’ 
asked the dying woman earnestly. 

‘ Oh, Henrietta, hush ! There can be no question 
about that now. Do you forgive me, my wife ? ’ 

‘ Forgive yowf Don’t mock me, Gilbert. You 
have been too good, too kind, too forbearing. I 
was never fit to be your wife. But you will miss 
me a little, and the children will be a heavy care 
to you. Take care of Daisy, Gilbert. I have not 
been just to her, but you will make it up to her, 
and she will be a comfort to you, I know. How 
dark it grows ! Has the sun set yet ? ’ 

‘ Long since. You are not afraid to cross the 
dark river, Henrietta? You have faith in the 
Saviour ? * 

‘ I — I think so. No, I am not afraid. I have asked 
to be forgiven. I should like to have lived a little 
longer, to try and be a better wife to you, a better 
mother to the children, but I am quite willing to 

go-’ 

Holgate opened the door of the adjoining dress- 
ing-room and slipped in. No stranger should 
listen to the last words between the husband and 
wife. She spoke no more. And within the hour 
the curate’s household was made motherless. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

A MOMENTOUS HOUR. 

‘ If you knew the light 
That your soul casts in my sight, 

How 1 look to you 
For the pure and the true, 

And the beauteous, and the right.* 

Browning. 

Y master is asleep, sir,’ said the servant 
to Doctor Ilolgate, one evening when 
he called at the Rectory. 

‘ I will see Mrs. Barham, then, if you 

please.’ 

The girl hesitated a moment before she answered. 

‘ Step into the dining-room, sir, and I’ll tell her 
you are here.’ 

Holgate nodded, hung up his hat, and crossed 
the hall in the direction of the dining-room. As 
he did so, he noticed signs of confusion about, and 
some packed trunks standing in a recess. He 
turned to ask the maid whether they were leaving 
the house, but she had already disappeared through 
the baize-covered door into the kitchen. When 
he entered the dining-room, he saw Mrs. Barham 




A MOMENTOUS HOUR. 


177 


sitting at tlie davenport, writing. A candle was 
burning beside ber, for though it was a summer 
evening a dense fog had come suddenly down, 
making twilight before the setting of the sun. She 
rose hurriedly, and only half-turned her head to 
greet him. He wondered at the evident confusion 
in her manner, usually so calm and self-possessed. 

‘ Good evening, Doctor Holgate. Excuse me 
just one moment, while I address this letter. 
Might I ask you to take it to the post as you go 
down? The maids are at their wits’ end. We 
leave Crosshaven to-morrow.’ 

Her voice was distinctly tremulous ; she seemed 
much distressed. 

‘ Anything I can do, Mrs. Barham, will be gladly 
done,’ he answered sincerely ; and sat down to wait 
until she should be disengaged. She seemed to 
linger over the writing of the address, and she sat 
with her back to him. But he could see the beauti- 
ful outline of her face, showing against the shadow 
cast by the candle-shade. 

‘ Mr. Barham has been very unwell to-day. Doctor 
Holgate,’ she said at length. She rose as she spoke, 
still toying with the letter. He saw her hand 
tremble as she put it in the envelope. He noticed 
another little thing, that she wore her hair low 
on her brow, as he had never seen her wear it 
before. 

‘I am sorry to hear that. If he is worse, is it 
wise to hurry away from the Haven ? ’ 

‘ Yes, it is imperative. He is asleep now. I do 
not think you will see him to-night.’ 


178 


BR/AJi AND PALAf. 


‘ If not, I can look in early to-morrow. You 
will not leave in the morning ? ’ 

‘ Yes, in the morning.’ 

‘ Are you going to your own home ? ’ 

‘ In the meantime, yes. I have just been writing 
to Lady Ilolgatc.’ 

‘ May I express the hope that there will be some 
rest for you at Scaris Dene, Mrs. Barham ? ’ 

She shook her head, and her mouth trembled. 

‘ I sometimes think there will be no rest for me 
this side the grave, Doctor Holgate. God alone 
knows why life is made so hard for me. I cannot 
bear it I ’ 

The words seemed forced from her. She sat 
down at the desk again, and, leaning her head on 
her folded arms, gave way to a fit of passionate 
weeping. God knew what it was to Holgate to 
look on and keep silent. His heart was bursting 
with its agony of pain, of passionate and yearning 
love. Yet he dared not even lay a kind hand on 
her shoulder ; he must be dumb, motionless, blind 
to her sorrow and her care. It was a moment of 
fearful trial for the man. He stood up ; his hand 
shook ; the colour died absolutely out of his face. 
But he kept silent. By a mighty effort he 
remained loyal to her, to himself, and to the 
woman whom he had promised to make his wife. 
The victory showed that Holgate’s struggles after 
a better life were not barren of results. They stood 
him good stead in this hour of agony. He stood 
in silence until the passion of her weeping was spent, 
and she rose and turned to him once more. 


A MOMENTOUS HOUR. 


179 


‘ Will you forgive me ? I can never forgive 
myself. I have had a trying day, and I have had 
no sleep for many nights. My nerves are unstrung. 
Pray forget it. It is nothing more than that.’ 

‘ I only wish it were as easy to forget as it is to 
speak of it,’ returned the surgeon gloomily. ‘ If I 
look in an hour or two later, I might find Mr. 
Barham awake.’ 

‘ Do not come. It would be better that you did 
not see him again ; ’ and the red rose in her cheek. 
‘ He would only insult you, as he has insulted me 
to-day. I only hope that by to-morrow he may 
not have changed his mind. It is (|uite possible 
that he may refuse to go home after all. His 
whims have no end.’ 

‘ It becomes a question how far it may be right 
to humour these whims, Mrs. Barham.’ 

A sad, slight smile touched for a moment 
Winifred Barham’s lips. 

‘You do not know him. Doctor Holgate,’ and 
suddenly she drew herself up a little. ‘ I forget 
myself sometimes in speaking of my husband, but I 
feel at home with you. You have been a kind, true 
friend to us. Doctor Holgate. God bless you for it ! ’ 

‘ Oh, hush ! It is nothing in comparison with 
what you have been to me. You have made me 
a better man, Mrs. Barham,’ cried Holgate, no longer 
able to restrain himself ‘d dare not trust myself 
to speak of your angel patience, your utter abnega- 
tion of self It has been like a revelation of God Him- 
self to me. I say it reverently, and you will never 
know what you have done for me in this place.’ 


I So 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


An exquisite light dawned on the face of Winifred 
Barham. 

‘I thank you/ she said simply; ‘I shall never 
forget what you have said. Now I must say good- 
bye, and send you away. May I say one thing 
more ? I have heard a bit of gossip in the Haven. 
If it is true, may I pray God bless you, and the 
woman who is to be your wife. Doctor Holgate ? ’ 

It was proof of her own loyalty, of the greatness 
of her womanhood, that she could so speak. 
Holgate was humbled before her. He had not a 
word to say, only his heart beat with a hungry, 
passionate pain. 

‘ It is true,’ he answered, with his head bent. 
He felt as if he could not look her in the face. 

There was a brief silence between them, and the 
candle burned low in its silver socket, until the 
light grew very faint in the room. A curious 
sense of nearness to each other possessed these two. 
Winifred Barham was conscious of it, without 
understanding it ; Holgate, alas ! understood it 
only too well. Never had life seemed so unbear- 
ably hard to him. He did not know why he 
lingered, prolonging the bitter pain of each 
moment. 

‘Then if you go to-morrow, we may never meet 
again,’ he said quickly. 

‘ Oh, I should not like to think that. We may 
meet; I trust in happier circumstances,’ she said 
more brightly. 

At that moment the up-stairs bell, with which 
Holgate was now familiar, rang furiously through 


A MOMENTOUS HOUR. i8i 

the house. He saw her start, and grow paler, if 
that were possible ; there was a distinct expression 
of fear on her face. 

‘ I must go. Good-night, Doctor Holgate,’ she 
said hurriedly. As she spoke, she passed her hand 
nervously across her brow. At that moment the 
candle, in an expiring effort, sent up a bright flame, 
and Holgate saw that in pushing the golden hair 
aside she had revealed a long blue mark like a 
bruise. 

‘What is that ? Are you hurt, Mrs. Barham ? ’ 
he asked, starting forward. ‘ Have you met with 
any accident ? ’ 

Her 'colour rose again, this time in a hot, quick, 
painful wave. 

‘ Do not ask. It is better not. The shame of it 
was harder than the pain. Forget it and me. 
Doctor Holgate. Again, thanks for all your good- 
ness. The heart of a desolate woman has been 
cheered by your friendship.' 

So saying, she glided from the room. Holgate, 
like a man in a dream, followed her, took his hat, 
and went out of the house. 

He was possessed of a thousand impulses, which 
were like to overwhelm him. One was uppermost, 
a wild desire to be revenged on the coward who 
tyrannized over the weak woman the law had 
placed in his power. There had been times wlien 
intense pity for Guy Barham had made him find 
excuses for his irritability, his waywardness, the 
selfishness of his whims. But now pity was dead ; 
a blind indignation, a black and bitter hatred 


i 82 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


possessed his whole being. That purple bruise on 
the white brow seemed to have burned itself into 
his very soul. He drew his hat over his brows ; he 
ground his teeth and clenched his hands. It was 
well that no one saw him in that wild mood. It is 
certain he could not have controlled himself suffi- 
ciently to present an unruffled exterior. 

It had been a fine mild day, without brilliant 
sunshine, or the heat common to the month of 
July, but now a dense fog hung over sea and land 
like a pall. A low wind had risen, and drove the 
mist against Holgate ; he felt its cold, stinging 
touch in his face. Involuntarily he turned his 
steps towards the shore. He needed its isolation, 
its freedom ; he had a hard battle to fight. He 
gave himself up, as he went, to a vision of what life 
might have been had they met in happier circum- 
stances, had both been free. He told himself 
bitterly it was mad, wrong to think of her at aU ; 
but oh, such thoughts were passing sweet ! They 
were like a solace to an aching wound ; and they 
could harm no one. They had parted, probably to 
meet no more on earth. To-morrow he would be 
brave and strong to take up the grey routine of his 
life, made better, he hoped and prayed, by the sweet 
example which had been daily before him for 
months. Standing there on the sloping bank, 
where Captain Silas’s ‘owd boat’ was rotting in 
wind and weather, quieter, holier, better thoughts 
came home to the heart of Denis Holgate. He 
vatched the tide flowing in with stealthy rapidity ; 
he saw the gradual rising of the breakwater, and 


A MOMENTOUS HOUR. 


183 


hcfird the swell lapping the keels of the honts at 
anchor there ; he listened to the sea winds moaning 
within the impenetrable mist ; and felt as if he 
were a creature utterly alone in some remote region, 
far removed from the haunts of men. The village 
was lost in the fog ; he could only see a few yards 
before and behind him ; but the solitude, the sense 
of utter isolation, suited his mood. He had to bid 
farewell here, by the edge of the sobbing tide, to a 
part of his life which must henceforth be to him 
a dim but very sacred memory. This love, which 
had been at once the deepest joy and the keenest 
pain of his existence, must henceforth be shut 
absolutely out of his life. AVith folded arms and 
eyes downbent upon the sea-daisies blowing on the 
sward, Denis Holgate looked ahead a little into the 
life which a woman’s influence was to make a 
nobler, manlier, heavenlier thing than it had ever 
yet been. For her dear sake, to be worthy of the 
friendship she had said was between them, he would 
do his duty henceforth, with God’s help, unflinch- 
ingly, at whatever sacrifice or cost. First of all, 
then, self must be trampled upon, must be put 
absolutely in the background. Duty first of all 
pointed to his childhood’s home, to his patient, 
heroic, self-denying mother, to his sister, whom, God 
help and forgive him ! he had once despised. Tears 
rose in his eyes as he thought of her ; a new tender- 
ness crept into his heart, suffusing his whole being 
with a soft and radiant glow. To see them, to seek 
them out, to insist that they should share what he 
had, that they should permit him to atone for the 


184 


BJiIA£ AND FALM. 


past, this must be his first step. That done, his 
next and harder duty concerned the woman whose 
love he had won, and whose happiness he had it in 
his power to make or mar. He had not been just 
to her, he told himself. He would be kinder, more 
generous, more tender with her. When she was 
his wife, perhaps, the love which beautifies marriage 
would grow up slowly, and on a sure foundation. 

So Denis Holgate mapped out his life, looking its 
realities sternly in the face, making up his mind 
manfully to its manifold duties. There was a 
silent heroism in this, which had a touch of the 
sublime in it, because he was making a tremendous 
effort. He was still sitting on the old boat with 
his eyes downbent, when the sound of approaching 
hoofs caused him to raise his head. Then he saw 
Silas Dimmer’s Jerry trotting along the path, with 
his ears back, his nostrils dilated, his shaggy coat 
dripping wet. The poor creature came up to his 
side, rubbed his wet nose against his sleeve, and 
exhibited signs of distress. Holgate smiled, and 
bade him get away home, but when he moved away 
the animal persistently followed him, exhibiting 
a strange uneasiness which struck Holgate. He 
walked right out upon the marshes, through the 
dense folds of the mists, until he reached the white 
edge of the tide. It was now almost full ; only a 
narrow strip of sand remained dry. Jerry had left 
him, and was careering wildly about the sand-hiUs, 
as if a sudden terror had possessed him. As Holgate 
was about to retrace his steps, a sudden sound was 
borne to him on the wind, like the shrill cry of a 


A MOMENTOUS HOUR. 185 

woman half muffled in the deadness of the mist. 
He strained eyes and ears an instant, until he heard 
it again, this time unmistakably a cry of agony 
and fear. He knew whence it came, from tlie sand- 
bank where the cockle-gatherers had been busy in 
the afternoon. The shore was quite familiar to him 
now ; he knew that the treacherous sandbank was 
not more than a hundred yards distant, but as 
there was now deep water in the breach, and the 
tide rising rapidly, certain death awaited any 
human being left upon it. 

It took Holgate only one moment to make up 
his mind. He was not a coward ; he could not 
allow a fellow-creature to die there without making 
an effort to lend a helping hand. He thought of 
running for a boat, but by that time, owing to the 
rapidity with which the tide was flowing, it might 
be too late. Casting off his coat and vest, he waded 
into the water, and was very soon beyond his 
depth. He was a strong swimmer, and the water 
was comparatively smooth ; and with the cry, 
shrilly renewed, to guide him, he kept in the right 
direction. The fog was so dense that he felt him- 
self in shallow water once more before he could see 
any one on the sandbank. At length the outline 
of a woman’s figure became visible, and in a 
moment he was within a few yards of her, and saw 
to his utter amazement that it was Lydia Bolsover. 
The bank on which she stood had now become a 
few yards in circumference ; ten minutes more and 
it would be submerged, 

‘ Denis ! Denis ! save me ! ’ she cried wildly, her 
16 


iS6 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


face in its agony of terror blanched like the face of 
the dead. 

‘ I shall try. I heard the cry, but did not dream 
it would be yours. Can you swim ? ’ he asked in 
a quiet, firm voice. 

‘No, no! AVe shall be lost!’ she cried wildly. 

‘ Oh, that dreadful, cruel sea ! ’ 

‘ Hush I ’ he said sternly. ‘ Listen to me. There 
is only one chance of safety. You must cling to 
me. I can swim, and I 'am strong, but everything 
depends on your keeping absolutely still. If you 
hamper me with any motion in the water, it is 
certain death for us both.’ 

She hesitated a moment. His calm, quiet man- 
ner gave her confidence. She saw that he had 
faith in himself. She also became perfectly calm. 

‘ I understand you. Tell me exactly what to do ; 
I am ready.’ 

‘ Come, then.’ He held out his hand. She cast 
one look at the fast-lessening islet on which she 
stood, shuddered, and stepped into the water. 

It was a curious thinsj that on this night Denis 
Holgate should save the life of the woman who 
loved him, but whom he did not love. He smiled 
slightly as he breasted the waA’^e with her' on his 
arm. His progress was but slow ; it was un- 
doubtedly a time of fearful suspense and peril for 
them both. But shortly it was over, and they 
stood together safely on the shore, she very white 
and trembling, he exhausted with his toil. 

‘ Let us get home as quickly as possible,’ he said. 
‘ Are you able to walk ? ’ 


A MO MEN TO US HO UR. 187 

* Yes ; but you ? I feax you are quite exhausted. 
Can I run for help ? ' 

‘ No. Come, let us go home. Tell me how you 
came to be there and let the tide come in on you. 
Has no one ever warned you of these dangerous 
sandbanks ? ’ 

‘No. I was sitting reading and watching the 
sun set. When it dropped into the sea, the fog 
came down just like a pall ; and when I got up to 
go home I found deep water all round me. I was 
sitting with my face seawards, so I did not notice 
the quick flow of the tide.’ 

‘There is one place where you could have 
stepped over. I suppose you could not find it 
in the mist.’ 

‘ No ; besides I did not know. I hope Cap'tain 
Silas and Mr. Frew’s little girl are safe. I saw 
them and the donkey far across the sands opposite 
Marshside.’ 

‘ There is no fear of Captain Silas ; he knows 
these treacherous sands too well,’ said Denis 
Ilolgate. ‘ I hope you will be none the worse for 
your adventure. If I am able I shall look in and 
see you to-night.’ 

She looked at him suddenly — gratefully, yet 
with wondering eyes. 

‘ Would you have swam to my rescue had 
you known it was I on the sandbank?’ she 
asked. 

‘ Most certainly, Lydia.’ 

‘ You have saved my life. I thank you for it, 
Denis Holgate. I shall not forget it.’ 


JBEIAR AND PALM. 


1 88 

‘ Whose life would I save if not that of my 
promised wife, Lydia ? ’ he asked, with a smile. 

She made no answer, but the tears rose in her 
eyes. They parted at Captain Silas’s cottage, 
remarking upon the open door, not knowing that 
nevermore would Captain Silas cross its threshold 
or smoke his pipe of peace within the trellised 
doorway — nevermore. 


\ 




CHAPTER XV. 

‘OP HIS KINGDOM.’ 

• These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansions.* 

Prophecy of Dante. 

H HEN the baby, worn out with a fretful 
day, fell asleep in the evening, little 
Daisy had stolen away down to see her 
old friend, leaving her father in the 
study, and the boys playing in a more subdued 
way than usual in the baek yard. Martha, softened 
by the sorrow whieh had come upon the house, 
and touched by Daisy’s pale face, willingly promised 
to nurse the baby should he awake, and bade her 
not hurry, if she would like a walk. Daisy would 
like to have told her father, but the study door 
Iiad been locked since tea, so the child only slipped 
quietly across the hall, touched the door-handle 
with her lips, and stole out of the house. 

No one met her on the road, but Cicely Sutton 
happened to observe her entering the door of 
Captain Silas’s cottage, and her tears had started 
at the thought of the care now weighing upon the 
shoulders of the solitary child. She had remained 



190 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


a little in-doors, and tlien she and the old man had 
emerged, and taken together the familiar pathway 
to the shore. Jerry, browsing peacefully on the 
sand-hUls, had trotted after them, and .one of the 
cockle - gatherers had met them strolling slowly 
westward, hand in hand, talking in low, earnest 
tones. It is probable that, out of the sad event of 
the day, their talk had turned upon the mystery 
of death. That was just at sundown ; immediately 
afterwards the blinding mists came down, suddenly 
and thickly, as if some unseen hand had let loose 
the folds of a heavy mantle upon the earth. Be- 
tween eight and nine o’clock the curate came out 
of the stud}% to find the boys all in bed, and 
Martha sitting in the sitting-room watching the 
sleeping child. 

‘ Has Daisy gone to bed ? ’ he asked. 

‘ No, sir ; she went out long since to see Captain 
Silas. She’s bidden a gradely whoile. Shall I goo 
an’ bring her whoam ? ’ 

‘ Never mind ; I shall go. Dear me, what a 
disagreeable night ! What a fog ! It was very 
wrong of Captain Silas to keep Daisy so long,’ 
said the curate, as he put a muffler about his 
throat and took down his overcoat from its 
peg. 

He had opened the front door, and the wet, 
stinging night air blew chilly in upon him. It 
was very cold for a night in summer. 

A few minutes’ sharp walking brought him to 
Silas Dimmer’s cottage, only to find it in total 
darkness. ’J’he door was open, but there was no 


‘ OF HIS KINGDOM.' 


191 

one within. A slight feeling of .alarm came upon 
the curate ; it was just possible, he thought, that 
in their walk they might have lost their -way. 
That vague sense of uneasiness gave speed to his 
footsteps as he hurried up the street to the ‘ Boot 
and Shoe.’ As he stepped into the porch he heard 
the sound of excited voices in the kitchen, and 
when he looked in he saw Cicely vigorously stirring 
something on the fire, and talking very loudly. 

‘ I beg pardon, Mr. Frew,’ she said, the moment 
she caught sight of him. ‘ Please coom in an’ sit 
down, sir. It’s a raw neet if ever theer wur won.’ 

Sutton took his pipe from his cheek and touched 
his forelock as he rose to offer ‘ th’ parson ’ a chair. 

‘ I won’t sit down, thank you. I am in search 
of my little daughter, Cicely. She went out some 
hours ago, Martha says, to see Captain Silas, and 
she has not come back. The old man’s cottage is 
dark and empty. I thought they might be here. 
Have you seen anything of them ? ’ 

Cicely Sutton gave a quick gasp, and caught her 
side with her hand. All the ruddy colour died out 
of her winsome face, and her mouth trembled. 

‘ The Lord forbid ! ’ she said in a shaking voice, 
— ‘the Lord forbid! Oh, Mr. Frew, fur sure He’d 
nivver let nowt happen t’ little lass ! ’ 

Gilbert Frew sank into a chair, now totally over- 
come. He did not know what he feared. Cicely 
could not bear to see him in that attitude of 
despair, with his face bent on his hands. 

‘ Dunuot take on, sur ; fur sure owd Cap’n Silas 
knaws ivvry fut of th’ marshes an’ th’ shore fra 


192 


BRIAR AND PALM 


Hesketh to Formby. Maybaps hoo’s gon wi’ him 
to Sou’port, an’ they’ll coom whoam by th’ neet 
train.’ 

‘ It is the sandbanks, Cicely. I fear them,’ said 
the curate, rising heavily to his feet. 

‘ Ay ; my niece Lyddy’s had a taste of ’em to- 
neet. Hoo’s coom’ whoam drippin’ fra th’ sand- 
bank. Dr. ’Ow’git saved hoo’s life to her. Theer 
wur deep watter atween her an’ th’ shore, an’ he 
swam fur her, an’ brought her whoam. Hoo’s in 
bed noo, an’ wonna git th’ better o’t fur lang. 
Hoo’s gotten a foine fright, I can tell yo’. That 
wur loike a silly wench. Mister Frew ; but catch 
Cap’n Silas goin’ near th’ banks an’ a fog brewin’. 
He’s han’t forgot what they took fra him years agoo, 
parson. Art gooin’ out, Sutton ? ’ 

‘ Ay, I’ll jest tak’ a walk alang th’ sand-hills. 
Happen I’ll see ’em,’ answered Sutton, pulling on 
his boots. Cicely saw that her husband was not 
less anxious than herself. 

‘ Yo’d better git Sammy Wright an’ Jack Wright 
and Bob Linacre wi’ yo’, Sutton. One pair o’ hands 
an’t no use. Keep up thy heart, parson sur. 
Fur sure’s the Lord ’ud look after the little lass. 
Whoile Sutton goos for th’ men, wonnot yo’ goo up 
to th’ station ? Th’ train ’ll be in soon, an’ they 
may coom be it.’ 

‘ I’ll go. Cicely, but I don’t expect they will come. 
I am very anxious,’ said Gilbert Frew wearily. 

He was right. No passenger from Southport 
alighted at Crosshaven station that night, and he 
liuiriod ba(;k to the inn, thoroughly alarmed. He 


‘ OF HIS KINGDOM.' 


193 


found the men waiting for him, with anxiety and 
distress depicted on their faces. If anything had 
happened to little Miss Daisy, it would be even a 
worse grief to the parson than his wife’s death. 
All night through the anxious group wandered about 
the marshes and the shore, but found no trace of 
Captain Silas or his little lass. One fear possessed 
them, and was indeed whispered among them out 
of the curate’s hearing, that the ebb tide might 
carry the bodies out to sea, and that no trace 
might ever be found, or any clue to the mystery of 
their death. There was no doubt in their minds 
that the worst had happened to the old man and 
the little child. The dawn found them wandering 
disconsolately along the wide stretch of sand out 
from Marshside. It was a lovely dawn, clear, 
sweet, and bright, with a flush in the east like the 
bloom on a baby’s cheek, and a promise fairer than 
could be imagined or described preceded the rising 
of the sun. They strained their anxious eyes across 
the expanse, but nothing was visible. 

‘ Lyddy said she saw ’em gooin’ on to Marshside,’ 
said Sutton at length. ‘ Bob Linacre, wilt coom 
alang o’ me an’ see if theer be anything beyant yon 
sand-hill?’ 

His manner was a little excited, but they did 
not notice it. Gilbert Erew was like a man 
in a dream, passive, still, silent, following the 
others, but apparently taking no interest in the 
object of their search. He even wondered at times 
what they were doing wandering about here in the 
hush of the early morning, not realizing that they 
17 


194 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


were looking for liis own lost child. It was agreed 
that while Sutton and Bob Linacre went eastward 
a little way, the others should wait where they 
were. 

‘ Theer’s summat yander, Bob, see, bi yon rock,’ 
said Sutton, grasping his companion’s arm when 
they were out of hearing. ‘ Doesna it look oncom- 
mun loike a little gel’s frock ? If it be, God help 
th’ parson ! I wish I wur anywheer but wheer I am 
at this minit.’ 

‘ We mun goo an’ see, I reckon,’ answered the 
other in a trembling voice ; so in silence they strode 
across the wet sands until they came to the low 
flat rock left dry by the receding tide. And so 
they found them, the old man and the little child ; 
she with her little arms clasped tightly about his 
neck and her head on his breast, her golden hair 
lying fn wet tangles over his shoulder, both quite 
dead. They had loved each other in life, and 
together had entered that happy haven of which 
they had so often talked. There was no expression 
of terror or fear in their faces ; both were peaceful 
and pleasant, the lips of little Daisy parted in a 
smile. The cruel sea which had hemmed them in 
and made them its prey had only given them a 
better inheritance than any eart’i could give, ‘ for 
of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ 

‘ I can say now, “It is well.” ’ 

It was the curate who spoke. Holgate and he 
were alone together in the sitting-room at Wood- 
bine Cottage on the evening of the second day 


‘ OF HJS KINGDOM} 


195 


after tlie calaraity which had cast a gloom of 
mourning over the Haven. 

He was standing by the mantel with his arm 
leaning on it, his head turned to his friend, who 
was pacing to and fro the narrow room, as if 
labouring under a strong agitation. He had risen 
from his bed, where he had lain since his adventure 
on the sandbank, to come up and see Gilbert 
Frew. They had been talking, not of the calamity 
alone, but of the general affairs of life, and had 
touched upon its mysteries and strange sorrows. 
Holgate was questioning, rebellious, incredulous of 
the sweetness of the Divine Will, the curate wholly 
trustful and at rest. The Lord had given to him 
the comfort he needed ; the dark hour was past. 

‘ You amaze me, Mr. Frew ; to see you so calm, 
so cheerful, so like yourself, is the most wonder- 
ful thing I have ever known. It cannot be a 
delusion and a snare, this religion which so upholds 
you in trials which few other men could bear.’ 

‘ It is no delusion, I bless God ! ’ answered the 
curate quietly. ‘ When He reveals Himself to you, 
you will understand it, not till then. I do not 
know what holds you back, my friend, from the 
full belief and joy ? I often think you cannot be 
far from the Kingdom.’ 

‘ Far enough,’ answered Holgate gloomily. ‘ You 
think too well of me. You do not know of what 
meanness, what ingratitude, what selfishness I 
have been guilty. If it is not too selfish, I should 
like to speak to you about myself, Mr. Frew ; I 
need the advice, the help of such a friend as you.’ 


196 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ I shall be glad to listen/ answered the curate, 
and sat down by the window, from which he could 
see the smiling blue line of the sea which had 
robbed him of his little child. Perhaps it was but 
natural that he should turn his back upon it with 
a slight quick shiver ; the wound was very open 
yet. In the upper room the child still lay, covered 
with the choicest blossoms of the summer, awaiting 
the hour when they should carry her to the new- 
made grave under the shadow of the Eectory 
limes. 

Holgate, still continuing his walk, began at the 
beginning his life - history, omitting nothing, 
glossing nothing over, not sparing himself. There 
was a fine hope for him in the curate’s heart as he 
listened. When a man can thus lay his faults and 
stumblings bare before the gaze of a friend, he has 
taken a step in the right way ; his face, beyond a 
doubt, is setting towards the Kingdom. 

‘ Hearing all this, Gilbert Frew, will you still 
touch my hand in friendship ? ’ he said in conclu- 
sion. ‘ Do you not hate and despise me ? ’ 

‘ No, I love you.’ 

He rose and gripped him by the hand, and so 
they stood a moment looking into each other’s 
eyes. 

‘ Life is about to begin for you. You will make 
it very noble,’ said the curate warmly, and his face 
shone with his love and hope in his young friend. 
‘ If God out of His goodness permits you to make 
your reparation to your dear mother, to give your 
sister a sweeter life, you will be grateful for 


‘ OF HIS kingdom: 


197 


His mercy, and show your gratitude in your 
life.’ 

‘ I will, so help me God ! ’ said Denis Holgate, 
with the firm resolution of the man, and yet with 
the humility of a child. ‘ Will you sit down 
while I tell you the rest ; and this will relieve 
me yet more. I want to keep nothing from you. 
It was Winifred Barham who roused me first of 
all to a sense of my own abounding unworthiness. 
I loved her.’ 

‘ I knew it. I do know it ; but 1 was not afraid 
for you. God was watching over you. She is a 
noble, good woman, one of His saints, who praise 
and glorify Him in their lives.’ 

‘ How you understand everything ! I feared I 
could not explain to you just how I loved her. It 
was with a love which purified my whole being. 
You will believe me when I tell you that not an 
unworthy thought ever mingled with it. That 
night we parted, when I was alone out on those 
dreary marshes, I did think for a moment what life 
might have been for me had we met free, under 
happy circumstances. She did not know I had 
such a thought. She will never know now. We 
may never meet again ; and I am going to marry 
another woman. The very memory of Winifred 
Barham will make me strive to the uttermost to 
make happy the woman who becomes my wife.’ 

‘ I love you,’ repeated the curate again. It was 
an exquisite and beautiful thing in his nature that 
even in the midst of his own tribulations he could 
wean his thoughts away from self and take a heart 


198 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


interest in the life and welfare of another. ‘ When 
will you go to London ? ’ he asked after a moment’s 
silence. 

‘ The day after to-morrow,’ Holgate answered ; 
and there was a moment’s silence, as both thought 
of the double burying which to-morrow would cast 
such a sad gloom over the Haven. Who would 
fill the empty places ? There could be no second 
Captain Silas ; no other little lass to entwine her- 
self so closely about the people’s hearts. 

‘ It was a fearful thing,’ said Holgate involun- 
tarily. ‘ Something ought to be done. There 
should be some signal of warning in these dense 
fogs.’ 

‘ I think something will be done now. I intend 
to move in the matter. It has been spoken of 
before. At the time Captain Silas lost his wife 
there was some talk of erecting a fog-bell house, 
and again when the cockle-gatherers were lost some 
years ago. It is probable the matter will be taken 
up again. I shall try and push it to some 
practical end, though I shall not be a resident 
here.’ 

‘ Are you going away from Crosshaven, Mr. 
Frew ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; as soon as I can get something to do in 
London I intend to go. I do not think I could 
stay here now. The place has lost its beauty for 
me. I could not look with the same eye now on 
yonder shining sea, Denis,’ said the curate quickly. 
‘ A fuller, more active, more engrossing life would 
be the best thing for me just now.’ 


‘ OF HIS kingdom: 


199 


‘ I understand ; but wbat will Crossliaven be 
without you ? ’ 

‘Oh, another, perhaps worthier, will be found. 
In writing to Mr. Eidgeway yesterday, to acquaint 
him with my double sorrow, I mentioned my inten- 
tion and desire. It is probable he will come home 
to see how matters stand in the parish. It is a 
pity he cannot see his way to undertake at least a 
part of the work himself We have no right to 
judge, Denis ; but to me it is a mystery how a man 
in the prime of life should be content to dwell in 
ease as he does, frittering away the precious days 
among the frivolities of worldly fashions. It is a 
poor, barren, aimless life. Well, must you go now? 

‘ Yes ; it is growing dark, and I have some work 
waiting me,’ answered Holgate, but still lingered, 
as if he had left something unsaid. ‘ Mr. Frew, 
may I go in for a little alone to see my little friend ? ’ 
he asked at lengtli hesitatingly and in a low voice. 

‘ Assuredly. She is in the room where her mother 
died. You know the way. I shall not come up. 
Perhaps I have been there too long to-day. I found 
it hard to realize that my darling’s living presence 
had ready gone from me. The child was unspeak- 
ably dear to me, Denis ; but I shall see her some 
day, and she is safe from these troublea God’s will 
be done.’ 

Holgate nodded, and slipped out of the room, 
with a full heart. He entered the upper chamber 
very softly, and, closing the door, stepped lightly to 
the side of the bed where the child lay asleep. 

Her face was most natural and life-like, a sweet 


200 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


repose dwelt upon it. As he looked, Holgate 
thought he would not have been startled had a 
breath from the lips stirred the petals of the white 
roses on her breast. A strange sense of solemnity, 
of nearness to something infinite and divine, came 
upon him by the side of the dead child. He knelt 
down, and, folding his hands, prayed that the sins 
of his unworthy past might be blotted out, and that 
help and strength might be given to go forward in 
the better way. He prayed that his heart might 
be made pure and humble, as the heart of the dead 
child had been, and that he might be made fit to 
meet her when the time came for him to lay down 
the burden of life. When he rose from his knees 
he kissed the sweet face, and, with a reverent and 
chastened spirit, went comforted upon his way. 




CHAPTER XVL 

CHANGE. 

^ Oh, it is sad to feel the heart- spring gone, 

To watch Hope plume her soft bright wings for flight ; 
Then is the world most drear.’ 


T was a fine August evening when Denis 
Holgate threaded his way through the 
mazes of East London to his old home 
in the Tower Hamlets. The way was 
familiar, yet not familiar. He remembered it all, 
— the narrow streets, the continuous bustle, the 
close, impure air, the squalid women and children, 
the coster barrows, the discordant street cries. Yet 
it seemed years since he had lived among it all. 
Since then nothing had changed but himself. 
Something of the vague wonder, the deep com- 
passion which had been wont to weigh upon Rhoda 
in her pondering upon the problem of East Loudon 
life touched the spirit of Denis Holgate that sum- 
mer night, as he slowly made his way from the 
railway station to Hanbury Lane. lie had chosen 
to walk the whole way, perhaps to see about him, 
perhaps to try and calm the excitement which had 
taken hold of him at the near prospect of seeing 




202 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


his mother and sister, of renewing his acquaintance 
with the old home. As he came nearer the river, 
it seemed to him that the air grew more difficult to 
breathe, that scenes of wretchedness, evidences of 
sin and misery, abounded yet more. His heart was 
filled with a vast compassion as he looked upon 
his fellow - creatures condemned to breathe per- 
petually this contaminated air, at the little children 
who had seen green fields and heard the murmur 
of the sea only in their dreams. Surely the place 
had grown more wretched than in the days when 
he had been wont to walk to and fro tliis very way, 
he told himself, but the next moment it came home 
to him that there was no change save in himself. 
Then his eyes had been holden so that he could not 
see, a selfish interest had wholly engrossed him ; now 
the largeness of life had touched him, his heart had 
grown more tender, more sympathetic, he knew 
that there were other claims upon him than those 
advanced by self alone. A purifying influence had 
been at work upon him, and while he was a better 
he was beyond a doubt a sadder man. A higher 
knowledge, a wider sympathy had brought its own 
shadow with it. He saw the magnitude of the 
work which ought to be done, and felt himself weak, 
almost powerless to do anything to aid his brothers 
and sisters. As he walked that summer night 
through the narrow ways of the great city, a yearn- 
ins desire to cast in his lot with those who lived 
their lives here came upon him. The Haven, with 
its quiet and lovely influences, had done its work ; 
it had opened his heart, and now it could not hold 


CHANGE. 


203 


him. Here, in this place, where he had lived 
part of his life, he felt his life-work must be. It 
came upon him suddenly, almost like an inspiration 
from above. In an instant his duty was revealed 
to him. He felt glad and willing to take it up. 
It is a blessed thing, not only to be willing to do 
what is required of us, but to know exactly what 
that maybe. There has been precious^' 'time and 
golden opportunity irrevocably lost through lack of 
this clear vision. I cannot but think, however, 
that, if we are in sober earnest, our calling will be 
revealed to us. 

Holgate had not hurried on his way, and the 
sun had set when he turned into Hanbury Lane. 
He felt impelled to stand still a moment at the 
corner, though he was the object of close observa- 
tion and curiosity. Here at least was no change. 
It seemed to him that the same wretched curs 
fought and scrambled among the dust-heaps, that 
the same tangled and dirty urchins made mud-pies 
in the gutter. The old tumble-down houses still 
leaned towards each other from their topmost 
storeys, the same rags and tatters were drying 
grimily from the window-poles. The gin-palaces, 
with their gaudy fronts and brilliant gaslights, 
still yawned a cruel invitation to their miserable 
frequenters to drown their care once more, the 
same degradation and squalor and poverty pre- 
vailed. Would he find no change, he asked 
himself, with a beating heart, in that one comer of 
Hanbury Lane which was dear to him, where of 
late his thoughts had so often been ? 


204 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


A curious feeling of hesitation, almost of reluc- 
tance, came upon him as he felt himself so near ; 
but he strove to overcome it, and walked with 
quick, firm steps down the side pavement to the 
little shop. When he came nearer it, what did he 
see ? There was a change here. The window, 
dirty and obscured, was filled with dusty second- 
hand articles, the door hung about like a wardrobe 
with old clothes. The sign read, ‘ Isaac Rathbone, 
Dealer in Second-hand Furniture and Clothing.’ 
The master of the emporium, a greasy individual in 
shabby broadcloth and a velvet skull-cap, was 
smoking a cigar of doubtful brand at the door, and, 
seeing the well-dressed stranger eyeing his place 
with interest, stepped out to the pavement with a 
bland smile. 

‘ Want a nice suit cheap, sir, or some real Queen 
Anne tables or a Louis XV. cabinet? Step in. 
Prices moderate. All bargains at the money and 
no deception. You pays your money an’ you gets 
your article, them’s my principles. Honesty is the 
best policy. Step in, step in.’ 

‘ I need nothing, sir,’ answered Holgate, in a 
disturbed voice. ‘ But I wiU step in if you will 
allow me. Can you tell me anj’thing about Mr.s. 
Anne Holgate, who had this ])lace of business as a 
provision shop a year or two ago ? ’ 

. The dealer shook his head and rubbed his hands 
contemidatively together. 

‘ I’ve been ’ere, sir, fifteen months, an’ I rented 
the jdace from a man wot bought it for an eatin’ 
’ouse, but that spec didn’t jtay ’im. I axed no 


CHANGE. 


205 


questions about who was ’ere before ’im. It’s dear 
at the money, sir, and times is hard. Won’t you 
look at this ’ere clock? I swear, sir, it’s. a real 
French bronze. Came out of a haristocratic 
mansion near ’yde Park, ’pon honour it did, sir. 
Only five guineas, cheap at the money, a rare 
bargain. Won’t you ’ave it ? An ornament to 
any gentleman’s residence, sir, an’ sent ’ome free 
ov cost.’ 

Holgate shook his head. A keen disappointment 
had fallen upon him. He felt impatient of the 
man’s volubility, and with a brief good evening left 
the shop. What was to be done now? He had 
never dreamed that they might have left the old 
place. How and where, then, was he to find any 
clue to their whereabouts ? What did it mean ? 
Could his mother be dead ? If so, what had become 
of Ehoda? A sick dread took hold upon Denis 
Holgate as he asked himself these questions. Was 
this to be his punishment ? Would no opportunity 
be given him to prove the sincerity of his repent- 
ance ? Must he carry the sting of an unavailing 
remorse with him to the grave ? He continued his 
walk through Hanbury Lane, looking about him 
anxiously, eagerly, hoping that something might 
catch his eye, the old sign, perhaps, above another 
door. Unless some strange circumstance had com- 
pelled her, why had his mother left Hanbury 
Lane? He had never heard her hint at any 
change, and she was too prudent a woman to 
relinquish an established business for any paltry 
reason. He stepped into a little coffee-house which 


2o6 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


he knew had been there for twenty years. "I’he 
woman who kept it might be expected to be aware 
of any important change in the Lane. She did 
not recognise him, though he saw but little change 
in her. 

‘ Could you tell me, please, anything about Mrs. 
Holgate, who kept the provision shop at the corner 
of Tom Beckett’s alley ? ’ he asked. 

‘ No, sir, nothin’ ’cept that they cleared out 
more’n two year ago. The old lady had made a 
bit o’ money, an’ ’twas thought she’d gone to live 
with her son, who was a doctor away in the country. 
But that was only spekkelation, sir, cos she were 
as close as a corked bottle, an’ nobody knowed for 
certain,’ answered the woman. ‘ Maybe you’re a 
connection, sir ? ’ 

‘ Yes. There was a daughter ; you would not 
hear what became of her ? ’ 

‘ She went wi’ her mother ; an’ she were sore 
missed i’ the Lane, sir, were Rhoda ’Olgate. She 
were a friend to the poor. No, I know nothing of 
her ; but she’s all right, an’ a-doin’ of good wherever 
she be, sir, or my name ain’t Sally Barker. Did 
}’ou know the young man ’Olgate, sir ? ’ 

‘ Yes. Then you think I need not make any 
inquiries in the Lane ? No one will be able to give 
me any more information than yourself?’ 

‘ I’m sure o’ it, sir. Mrs. ’Olgate took up wi’ 
nobody. It’s my belief that it were to keep Rhoda 
away from the folks i’ the Lane that she left. She 
were always ])okin’ into folk’s houses, helpin’ ’em 
tidy up, an’ nursin’ sick babbies, an’ the like. She 


CHANGE. 


207 


were a rare good one, Ehoda ’Olgate ; but the old 
lady didn’t like her ways. I’ve heard they didn’t 
agree. I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell ye no more. 
You see it’s a long time since they left. Deary 
me, what mayn’t happen in two year ! We may 
all be dead an’ buried, sir, in less time nor that.’ 

‘ Thank you, ma’am, for the trouble you have 
taken to answer my questions, and good evening 
to you,’ said Denis Holgate, and, laying half-a- 
crown on the counter, he went out into the street. 

He was utterly at a loss what to do ; the great- 
ness of his disappointment incapacitated him from 
forming any plan of action. One thing alone was 
uppermost, that his remorse had come too late ; 
they were lost in the great wilderness of London, 
and he was alone on the face of the earth. He 
wandered aimlessly from one thoroughfare to 
another, not heeding what direction he took, not 
knowing what intention or desire possessed him. A. 
A ague unrest seemed to pursue him. He was a 
miserable man. Presently he heard the tones of a 
great bell pealing above the din, and knew he was 
near St. Paul’s. The busy streets were lit by the 
glare from the shop windows, and the crowds 
hurried to and fro the footways with as much 
eagerness as if the business of the day had but 
newly begun. Denis Holgate felt curiously alone in 
the crowd. Since his arrival in the city five hours 
ago he had not looked upon a single familiar face 
save that of the woman in the coffee-shop in Han- 
bury Lane. He wondered vaguely, as he slowly 
threaded his way through the throng, how people 


2o8 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


endured life here. He had changed since the da3’'s 
when London had been his home. The noise and 
bustle and hurrying to and fro jarred upon him ; 
he thought longingly of the peacefulness and the 
beauty of that sweet village by the sea where he 
had received his baptism of pain. 

He found himself in Fleet Street at length, and 
then the first idea shaped itself in his mind. 
Entering the office of the Daily Neivs, he wrote 
an advertisement to be inserted in its columns 
next day. He would wait in the city, he told 
himself, for a day or two, and see what result his 
advertising would have ; and if it elicited no reply, 
then he must return to the Haven and make 
arrangements for giving up his connection there. 
He could not remain ; he could not take up again 
tlie sober threads of his quiet life ; he could not 
dwell at ease in affluence and peace, not knowing 
wliat had been or might be the fate of the two 
women of whose welfare he had been so culpably 
careless. 

Two women alone in a great city, perhaps with- 
out means of subsistence ! Holgato shuddered at 
the thought. An agonized prayer was perpetually 
in his heart. He had sinned grievously in his 
neglect of a sacred duty, nevertheless he had a 
hope that God would not visit him with so dire 
a punishment. 

These resolutions Holgate put into execution. 
He remained three days in London, and during the 
time was not idle. He inserted advertisements in 
all the leading morning and evening papers, worded 


CHANGE. 


209 


so that there could be no mistaking his meaning, 
but without result. Not a single answer was left 
at any of the offices, not the remotest clue gained 
as to the whereabouts of those he had lost. 

On the fourth day he returned disconsolately, 
almost hopelessly, to Crosshaven. 

Lydia Bolsover was aware of his visit and its 
object ; he had told her honestly, thinking it her 
due, and the tribute had touched her. There was 
a change in Lydia since her narrow escape from 
death. Her aunt noticed it, and rejoiced in it, 
hoping it would continue. 

When Holgate arrived at the Haven that night 
he went straight from the station to the ‘ Boot and 
Shoe.’ Cicely was alone in the kitchen, stoning 
some fruit for to-morrow’s pudding for dinner. It 
was a quiet time at the ‘ Boot and Shoe ’ in the 
early evening, before the idlers began to gather in 
their favourite resort to discuss the events of the 
day. Cicely had on a black gown and a bow of 
crape in her cap, a token of respect for those who 
within the last week had gone away for ever from 
the Haven. Her comely face wore a sad and 
troubled expression ; no one knew indeed how the 
calamity had laid hold upon her heart. She had 
loved the old man and the little child with a deep 
and peculiar love, and the manner of their death 
she would never forget rror cease to grieve over. 
It was a thing she could not understand, though 
it was plain enough to others that the old man, 
not so keen -sighted nor quick-witted as of yore, 
had only lost his way in the fog. 

18 


210 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


She was brooding over it, recalling the child’s 
sweet ways and the many fine traits in the old 
man’s character, her tears dropping all the while, 
when a shadow fell athwart the sunshine which 
had been streaming in through the open door. 
She started nervously, and some of the fruit rolled 
to the red brick floor. 

‘ Doctor ’Ow’git ! ’ she exclaimed, with a slightly 
tremulous smile. ‘ Coom in, coom in. So yo’s 
gotten back fra Lunnon ? Sit doon. Fur sure yo’re 
noan better fur thy trip. I nivver seed thee luk 
more white an’ worrit. Noan trouble at whoam, I 
hope, sur?’ 

‘Ay, trouble sure enough, Cicely,’ answered the 
surgeon, dropping wearily into a chair. ‘ Are you 
all alone in the house ? I want to see Lydia.’ 

‘ IIoo’s i’ th’ garden pickin’ th’ blackberries for 
t’ table, Doctor ’Ow’git. Hoo’s been at it a’ day ; 
a gradely foine worker is Lyddy when hoo likes. 
Shall I call her in ? ’ 

‘No. I shall go out presently. She is keeping 
better, I hope ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes, hoo’s a’ reet again, noan the worse fur 
her duckin’, but a great deal the better. Hoo’s a 
different lass. Timer’s good in Lyddy, Doctor 
’Ow’git. Poor lass, I donnot think hoo’s hed a 
chance to be owt worth. Bolsover wurn’t fit to 
bring up chillen, and Hilary Anne, tho’ hoo wur ma 
own sister, wur fur no use i’ the world. You’ll 
mebbe mak’ a reet foine ’oman o’ Lyddy, Doctor 
’Ow’gi t;.’ 

Ilolgatc smiled slightly. 


CHANGE. 


211 


* I may wish to take her away very soon, Cicely. 
I am going to leave the Haven immediately, and I 
intend to ask her to share my London life. There 
is no reason why we should wait.’ 

‘ Noan i’ the world. I wish yo’ both well. Doctor 
’Ow’git. Nowt but good wishes ’ll go wi’ thee 
fra th’ Haven. Then’s been a good friend to 
iwry wan. I know who’ll miss yo’ maist. Th’ 
Lord help our parson ! he’s a soar, soar tried mon,’ 
said the good soul, and her tears fell afresh. 

‘ He is ; but no man can say but that he bears 
his trials nobly, Cicely,’ said the surgeon, as he 
rose to his feet. 

‘ Goo out by th’ back door. Doctor ’Ow’git,’ said 
Cicely. ‘ Wilt tak’ a cup o’ tea fra me, if I mak’ it 
ready ’gainst yo’ an’ Lyddy coomin’ in ? ’ 

‘ Oh no, thank you ; I only want to ask how 
she is, and then I must hurry home and render 
my account to Doctor Radclifle. I outstayed my 
time a day.’ 

‘ What a’tho’ ? Thou wert soar needin’ thy bit 
o’ rest, tho’ I donnot think thou’st had mich rest,’ 
said Cicely, shaking her head, and looking with a 
kindly eye into his face. 

He was a great favourite with her, and she counted 
her niece a lucky girl, though there was something 
in their courting she did not understand. 



CHAPTER XVir. 

FAREWELL. 

‘ Estrange her once, it bodes not how, 

By wrong, or silence, anything that tells 
A change has come upon your tenderness, 

And there is not a high thing out of heaven 
Her pride o’ermastereth not.* 

Willis. 

S Holgate stepped across the clean cool 
stone court at the back door and up the 
little flight of worn steps into the garden, 
he could not but think what a pleasant 
place it was that sultry summer afternoon, with its 
wealth of sweet old-fashioned flowers and its grassy 
walks made shady by the boughs of the apple-trees 
bending low with the rich promise of their harvest. 
The soft air was redolent of a thousand sweet 
odours and instinct with the melody of bird and 
bee. The ground sloped down to the edge of a 
running brook, and it was at the lower end that the 
blackberry and raspberry bushes grew thick and 
tall. In this little forest of green llolgate caught 
sight of a white gown and the flutter of a hat- 
ribbon, but he did not make haste to the girl’s 



FAREWELL. 


*13 


side, nor did his heart beat nor his pulse quicken, 
as it ought at sight of her. He made his way 
leisurely along the shady path, and even stopped 
at a gaudy rose-bush to pick a bud for his button- 
hole. Turning round quite suddenly, she saw him 
bending over it, and the colour rushed all over her 
face and dyed even her finger-tips. But she was 
calm and colourless again when he came to her 
side, holding out his hand. 

‘How are you, Lydia? I have just come by 
the afternoon train. I hope you are quite well 
again ? ’ 

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, and with her 
basket over her arm stepped out from the bushes. 
‘ How are you ? ’ 

It was a curious meeting, not like that of lovers 
certainly ; they were courteous to each other, no 
more. Since that night at the gate of Woodbine 
Cottage, Holgate had not oflfered to kiss her, and 
she had noticed it, and perhaps regretted the hasty 
passion with which she had spoken then. 

‘ I hope you found your mother and sister well ? ’ 
she said in a low voice, swinging the basket on her 
arm as she spoke. 

‘ I have not found them at all,’ he answered 
gloomily. ‘ Can you come and sit with me a little 
in the arbour, and I shall tell you about it ? ’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

She turned and led the way along a little wind- 
ing path to a rustic wooden bower built in the cool 
shelter of the high hawthorn hedge which separated 
the garden from the paddock. 


214 


BRIAR AND P LM. 


Ste set her basket on the little table, and seated 
herself opposite Holgate. She was outwardly very 
calm and unconcerned, inwardly she was not so. 
Her interest in Denis Holgate was not a slight 
thing ; he did not know what it had cost her. 

‘ They have gone away from the old place, leaving 
no clue,’ he said at once. ‘ During my short stay 
in London I have done my utmost to discover 
them, but in vain. I cannot understand where 
they can have gone, or why they left the place 
at all.’ 

‘ I am sorry to hear that. What will you do 
now? ’ 

‘ I am going to leave Crosshaven and go back to 
London.’ 

‘ You have a good practice here, and it will be 
better by and by. It will all come into your hands 
some day,’ she said quietly. 

‘ That is nothing to me. I shall never know a 
moment’s peace of mind now, Lydia, till I find 
them and ask their forgiveness. I have wronged 
them both very deeply.’ 

‘ You only obeyed your mother. She wished 
you, did she not, to sever yourself from them ? ’ 

‘ Yes, but in that she was wrong.’ 

‘ And what about St. Cyrus ? I have never heard 
the name fall from your lips since I came to the 
Haven.’ 

A flush rose slowly to the surgeon’s brow. 

‘ I have not thought of it for months. When I 
look l^ack and think what an idol I made of that 
dream, 1 marvel at my own folly. I do not think I 


FAREWELL, 


ai5 


shall ever be any nearer St. Cyrus than I am now. 
If it should ever take any part in my life again, 
it will be time enough to deal with it when that 
day comes. In the meantime, I have other work 
to do.’ 

‘ You are very much changed, Denis Holgate,’ 
said Lydia, leaning her arms on the rustic table and 
looking him straight in the face. 

‘ In what way ? ’ 

‘ In all ways. I do not understand you. You 
seem to look at life from a different staiid])oint. 
You are very young to have buried your ambition 
as you have done.’ 

‘ My ambition is not buried, Lydia, onl)- it has 
undergone a change. I have only learned of late 
that there is something more required of me than 
mere striving after self aggrandizement. With 
God’s help, Lydia, I desire and intend to live a 
diflferent life, and do what good I can in the world.’ 

‘ What has brought you to this state of mind ? ’ 
she asked calmly and quietly, as a judge might 
question a prisoner at the bar. 

Again his brow flushed, but he made answer 
clearly and honestly, without hesitation, — 

‘ The grace of God.’ 

She rose, and, moving to the doorway, stood with 
her back to him looking out with a curious expres- 
sion on her face. 

‘When do you intend leaving Crosshaven?’ she 
asked after a moment, half turning her face to him. 

‘ As soon as I can arrange matters with Doctor 
Radcliffe.’ 


2i6 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


‘ Will you leave a certain position for a mere 
cliance ? Do you know of any opening in London ? ’ 

‘ Not yet, but I expect to know what I am going 
to do before I go.’ 

There was another silence. He sat still. She, 
leaning against the ivied doorway, made a fair 
picture ; her face wore a sweet expression, but her 
eyes were gravely troubled. 

‘ Will you go with me, Lydia ? ’ he asked 
suddenly. 

‘No.’ 

She did not change her expression nor her atti- 
tude. Surely, he thought, the matter was not of 
much moment to her. 

‘ Why not ? I expected you would. You are 
my promised wife.’ 

‘ I was, but I shall not go, Denis, thank you,’ she 
answered quite gently. 

He rose and took a step nearer to her. His heart 
went out to her as it had never yet done. He had 
never seen her so gentle, so sweet, so winning. 
Could this be the woman who had been so defiant 
and bitter that night on the Eectory road ? 

‘ Will you not marry me, Lydia ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘ Why not ? ’ 

‘ You know. I shall not tell you. I have 
changed too, Denis Holgate.’ 

‘ Then you no longer care for me ? ’ 

She was silent, and watched with apparent indif- 
ference a swallow skimming lightly through the 
sunlit air. 


FAREWELL. 


217 


* I do not intend to marry you,’ she answered at 
length, but without looking at him. 

‘ I would be good to you, Lydia. I am in earnest. 
I think we would be happy,’ he pleaded, and his 
earnest look confirmed his word. He was in 
earnest, he had put away the memory of Winifred 
Barham out of his life, it would never come any 
more between him and this woman. 

‘ No ; we — at least I — should be miserable,’ she 
answered back, then she turned her eyes swiftly on 
his face, and there was a touch of passion in their 
depths. ‘ There would be too many memories 
between us, Denis. Had I not seen you that day 
in the Rectory Lane with her, T might have been 
less scrupulous. You saved my life, and I am not 
ungrateful. You are free.’ 

‘ But if I do not wish to be free, Lydia ? ’ 

‘ Perhaps at this moment you do not, or think 
you do not. By to-morrow you would regret not 
having taken me at my word,’ she answered calmly. 
‘ I know you better than you know yourself.’ 

‘ You are hard upon me, Lydia. I am not the 
impulsive, thoughtless being I was two years ago. 
I am a man now, and in earnest.’ 

‘ And I am a woman, and in earnest too, Denis,’ 
she said, with a swift, tremulous smile. ‘ I wish you 
well in your new life, and we part friends.’ 

She stretched out her hand for the basket, and 
the lace fell back from her wrist and revealed the 
white beautiful contour of her arm. Denis Holgate 
bent forward and touched her hand with his lips 
ere she could withdraw it. 


19 


2I8 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ I cfin only accept your decision, Lydia ; but I 
am neither a happy nor a satisfied man.’ 

‘ I know what is troubling you ; it is the thought 
of me, not your own disappointment,’ she said 
quietly. ‘ Do I look like a woman who would 
break her heart over a lost lover? I think you 
know I am made of different stuff, Denis.’ 

Holgate made no reply. His heart was troubled. 
He did not know what to say or do. Her self- 
possession now was very perfect, but he had other 
memories of her, and his self-reproach was very 
keen. He felt that he had been a blight on the 
clear sunshine of this woman’s life, and there 
seemed no opportunity for any atonement. She 
would have nothing to say to him and would 
accept nothing at his hands. He felt him- 
self in a painful position ; the folly of his thought- 
less youth was causing him to reap a bitter 
harvest. 

‘ Don’t look so dolorous, Denis,’ she said kindly, 
and she touched his arm with her fingers. ‘ I know 
what you are feeling, and it does not make me 
think less of you. Don’t fret about me. Your 
conscience may be quite at ease. You are willing 
to make me your wife, but I decline the honour. 
I am going to stay at home with Aunt Cicely. We 
are beginning to understand each other better. 
Some day you will hear of' my marriage, perhaps, 
and will smile over our old folly, as I shall do when 
I hear of yours.’ 

There was a womanliness and dignity in her 
whole manner as she spoke, which touched Holgate 


FAREWELL. 


219 


inexpressibly. She saw it in his face, and it was 
as if a sudden wavering shook her. 

‘ I must go in, Aunt Cicely will scold me/ she 
said. ‘ Will you join us at tea ? ’ 

‘ No, thank you ; I shall just go home through the 
paddock. Good-night, Lydia.’ 

‘ Good-night. You will come and see us before 
you leave the Haven ? ’ 

‘ If I can. Good-night. I despise myself, Lydia, 
and honour you' 

So saying, he passed through the wicket and 
strode across the paddock, but, instead of going 
straight home, went up the road to Woodbine 
Cottage. Perhaps the sight of the curate, busy in 
the neglected flower-beds, suggested the thought 
to him. Gilbert Frew saw him come, and had a 
smile and a warm word of welcome for him when 
he joined him in the garden. 

‘ What luck ? ’ he asked cheerily. * All’s well, I 
trust.’ 

‘ No, it’s all wrong. There’s nothing right under 
the sun, Mr. Frew. I wish I were anybody but 
myself.’ 

‘That’s bad. Tell me about it. Shall we sit 
down ? or can you talk while I tie up these poor 
beaten, broken things ? I have taken heart again, 
you see, Denis, and the tide was at a very low ebb 
with me.’ 

‘ Yes, but you have never lost your self-respect. 
I’m a poor mean wretch, conscious of my own in- 
significance,’ said Holgate gloomily. ‘ I don’t know 
what can be the end and aim of my existence.’ 


220 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


The curate laughed as he deftly fastened up a 
trailing branch of jessamine to the low fence. 

‘ Go on, it’ll do you good, my friend ; you are 
just on the toughest bit of the road. Eail away at 
the irony of fate.’ 

Holgate did not reply, and when the curate 
looked up inquiringly he saw that he was seriously 
troubled. Then his manner changed, and he became 
kind, anxious, deeply sympathetic as none could be 
so well. 

‘ Let us sit down here ; the air is pleasant, is it 
not ? I always think the open air gives one a 
freedom of thought and even a clearness of vision 
he has not in-doors. I think wo shall unravel this, 
and out of our quiet talk arrive at a conclusion 
concerning life and its usage of you.’ 

Holgate sat down, not unwillingly, on the bench 
beside his friend. Before he spoke, a vision of the 
sweet child who had loved this little home stole 
upon him, and his eyes filled with tears. 

‘ A thought of your little daughter came to me, 
Mr. Frew,’ he said. ‘ Her influence seems to 
hallow this place, her spirit to breathe in its very 
air. She was a blessed child.’ 

‘ And ts,’ said the curate dreamily, and with a 
smile of peace. 

Meanwhile, Aunt Cicely, grown weary for her 
tea, was sitting on the settle enjoying it when 
Lydia came in alone. She looked up, and was 
struck by the girl’s exceeding paleness. 

‘ Wheer’s th’ doctor, Lyddy ? ’ 

‘He has gone away. Aunt Cicely,’ she answered. 


FAREWELL. 


231 


as she set down her basket on the broad window- 
sill, and stood a moment with her back to her aunt, 
as if picking the stray leaves from among the fruit. 

‘ Art tired, my gel ? thy face is white enow, I 
didna mean thee, Lyddy, to bide i’ th’ sun or thy 
head got bad,’ said Cicely kindly. 

‘ My head is all right,’ Lydia answered cheerfully. 
Then she came over to the table, and, leaning her 
hand on it, looked straight into her aunt’s kind 
face. 

‘Aunt Cicely, it is all at end between Doctor 
Holgate and me. It is my doing ; and if you’ll let 
me stay with you. I’ll try to be a help, and not a 
burden. Only, don’t, if you love me, ask me any- 
thing about it; because I — I don’t think I could 
speak about it.’ 

‘ A’ reet, a’ reet. Sit tha doon, my gel, an’ hev 
thy tea,’ said Cicely cheerily. ‘ I knaw it’s a bit 
soar ; but yo’ll get used to it by and by, an’ maybe 
hev hauve a dozen lads cwortin’ afore thy own mon 
coomes by. So donna fret; but tak’ thy tea. 
Theer’s nowt sets up a woman’s heart, an’ mak’s 
troubles loight, loike a cup o’ tea.’ 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

IN DARK PLACES. 

‘ The pathos exquisite 
Of lovely minds set in harsh forms. 

George Eliot. 

RANNY, them people wot’s come in up- 
stairs are horful quiet, don’t yer think?’ 

‘They’ve maybe got their livin’s to 
make, like you an’ me, Benjie, an’ 
hain’t got no time to mak’ no noise,’ returned 
Granny, and, having threaded her needle, went on 
again with her button-holes with redoubled energy. 
‘ Are ye tired, Benjie ? ’ 

‘ Oh no, not tired, only lazy,’ answered Benjie 
cheerfully. ‘ But its a-gettin’ dark, don’t yer 
think? an’ it’s only five o’clock.’ 

A sigh followed the words, and a pair of large, 
hollow eyes were turned sadly upon the little 
narrow window, through which could be obtained 
a very meagre glimpse of the darkening October 
sky. That morsel of sky, changing with the 
seasons and with the weather, was a very precious 
thing to Benj ie, the match-box maker ; it was ail 
he had of tlic outside world, all he knew or had 



IN DARK RLACES. 


223 


ever known of its beauties. He was a huncliback, 
one of those whom we speak of with pity as 
deformed. At the first glance, he appeared strange 
and even repulsive in appearance. Ilis body 
seemed too large for the thin, stunted limbs, and 
there was an unsightly hump between the two 
shoulders. His hair hung in a rough tangle about 
his face, which was seared and wizened like that 
of an old man. The eyes were his one redeeming 
feature. They were large and lustrous, and had 
indescribable depths of pathos, even of tenderness 
in them. They gave an expression to that uncomely 
countenance, there were times when they even 
made it beautiful. The person whom he addressed 
as Granny was a withered old crone, whose age it 
was impossible to determine. In certain quarters 
in a great city age is not so much a question of 
time as of experience. Granny, then, might not 
bo very old in years, her experience perhaps had 
left these marks upon her. Her face was a pleasant 
one to look at, in spite of its wan colour, its 
wrinkles, its infinite patlios. She had clear black 
eyes, which had a twinkle in them. In happy 
circumstances Granny would have been one of the 
happiest, most cheerful persons in the world. As it 
was, her good spirits only flagged when she was, as 
sometimes happened, in absolute want. But for 
these good spirits, a mixture of hope and faith 
and contentment, she had undoubtedly been in 
her grave long ago. Her present occupation was 
trouser finishing, that is, sewing on buttons, putting 
in linings, and other items, for which she received 


224 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


the sum of twopence-hal^enny a pair, and found 
her own thread. In such conditions as these cheer- 
fulness becomes a virtue of no ordinary kind. 
There was no relationship between her and the 
hunchback, tl^ugh they shared their home, and he 
called her Granny. Benjie’s mother, a drunken 
orange-seller, had fallen down a stair with him 
when he was a baby in arms. The fall had killed 
her and maimed him for life. Granny had taken 
charge of the child then, and till now ; and they 
loved each other with a love which had few parallels 
in Straddler’s Corner. Domestic afiection was not 
a plant which flourished in that peculiar portion of 
the Queen’s domain. 

‘ I’ll tell yer wot, Benjie my man, it’s yer tea 
yer wantin’, eh ! isn’t that it ? ’ said Granny cheer- 
fully. ‘ An’ if ye jes’ wait till I sew on four 
buttons. I’ll make it. That’s fivepence-halfpenny, 
Benjie, since five this morning, an’ I’ll finish another, 
perhaps two pairs, afore bed-time, an’ that’ll be a 
shillin’. Eh lad, if only I could get em regler, 
we’d be rich in no time, an’ could save up to go on 
the river when the sunny days come.’ 

‘ I hain’t done much to-day. Granny, not near a 
gross. It’ll take me all my time to make twopence- 
halfpenny afore bed-time,’ said the hunchback 
regretfully. ‘ Match-boxes don’t pay. Granny, 
with the fire for dryin’ em, an’ the string to buy. 
I wish I could do summat else.’ 

‘Don’t ’ee fret, Benjie. Bless yer heart, you 
does as much as you can. An’ tlic poor back has 
been bad to-day, I know. I wonder, now, could we 


JN DARK PLACES. 


225 


afford a red herring to-night, eh ? Let me see, I 
have threepence left, but the coals is near done, an’ 
there’s the rent on Friday. No, we can’t to-day. 
Well, well, we’ll be content with our tea, eh, lad ? 
It’s a blessed thing to be content, ^-even if .it be 
little, an’ we can’t live for ever, that’s one blessin’. 
Some day, Benjie, you an’ me’ll be lookin’ down 
through that very bit o’ sky you’re so fond o’ down 
on Traddler’s Corner, and a-pityin’ of the poor 
critters here, jes’ as the angels are a-pityin’ now o’ 
you an’ me.’ 

A smile very exquisite dawned on the hunch- 
back’s face, as his eyes were once more uplifted 
to the sky. As if to confirm Granny’s words, a 
star, bright with promise, suddenly became visible 
in the tiny patch of blue. 

‘ There, there’s other twopence-ha’penny,’ said 
Granny, with a kinVi of quiet triumph, as she 
folded up the trousers and laid them on the box 
beside the others. ‘ Now, we’ll have our teas, 
Benjie, an’ then we’ll go on again, as busy as 
crickets, eh ? ’ 

‘ How cheerful you are to-day. Granny ! ’ said the 
hunchback almost wonderingly, as he followed the 
old woman’s active movements with his eye. 

‘ Ay, lad ; it’s wot I heard last night at the Hall,’ 
she said. ‘ Oh, Benjie, he was a fine gentleman, 
an’ he knowed wot he was a-speakin’ o’. I wish 
you’d ’a seen an’ heard ’im. I said to myself when 
I saw ’im, that un ’ud do my Benjie good. He 
ad such a kind face, Benjie, an’ he knowed, I tell 
ye, wot he was a-spcakiu’ o’. He’s had his own 


226 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


troubles, an’ he knows that it’s only the Lord wot 
can do any good when there ain’t no sun a-shinin’. 
You an’ me knows that, eh, Benjie ? Many’s the 
time we’d ’a felt our hunger more but for knowin’ 
the Lord knew all about it, an’ had been hungry 
Hisself. It’s the want o’ knowin’ the Lord that 
makes ’em so badly off ’ere in Traddler’s Corner. 
But p’raps they’ll all know Him some day, ay, 
p’r’aps they will.’ 

‘ I say. Granny, do you s’pose now the Lord 
knows I ain’t made a gross o’ boxes the day, an’ 
that it’s a-vexin’-of me ? ’ asked the hunchback. 

‘Why, in course He does. He knows every- 
think, an’ He’ll make it all right,’ said Granny 
cheerfully, as she poked two very tiny morsels of 
stick in the grate to make the kettle bod. ‘ Why, 
there’s somebody knockin’ at our door. Who can 
it be ? Come in, come in.’ 

In response to the invitation the door was 
opened, and a woman entered. 

‘ Have you no light ? ’ she asked, with a touch of 
imperiousness in her clear voice. 

‘ We have a candle, ma’am, but we was a-savin’ 
o’ it for our work, as we were jes’ goin’ to hev’ tea,’ 
Granny answered rather perplexedly, for she could 
not understand this unceremonious intrusion, and 
rather resented it, thinking it was some undesirable 
neighbour. Granny rather held herself aloof from 
the dwellers in Straddler’s Corner, although she 
would do any one of them a good turn if she had 
it in her power. 

‘ Light it, if you please, and I shall give you 


IN DARK PLACES. 


*27 


another in its place/ she said coolly. ‘ I want to 
talk a little with you.’ 

Granny lit the candle, and then turned to look 
at their visitant. The hunchback also turned his 
large penetrating eyes full on her face, and seemed 
fascinated by it. It was certainly a fine face, nay, 
more, the face of a strikingly beautiful woman. 
Each feature was perfect ; the mouth, in spite of a 
sternness and grave firmness, had an exquisite 
sweetness, the eyes were as clear and limpid as a 
summer sky. Her figure, though not tall, was well 
developed, and carried with unmistakeable grace. 
Her hair was red gold, and seemed to be confined 
with difficulty, its natural tendency being to hang 
in waves about her shoulders. It strayed now 
from beneath the close Quaker like bonnet, and 
lay in tiny ripples on her broad white brow. Her 
dress was severely plain, and she wore no gloves ; 
in her white, well-shaped hand she carried a note- 
book and a pencil. 

‘ May I sit down ? ’ she asked quietly. ‘ I wish 
to ask a few questions concerning your way of life. 
Not out of mere idle curiosity. I have an end in 
view. I wish to better the condition of such as 
you.’ 

‘Are you a Biblewoman, ma’am?’ asked Granny, 
as she dusted a chair for her strange visitor. 

‘ No, no, nothing of that kind,’ said she im- 
patiently. *I am a poor woman like yourself. 
I will not listen to a tale of your distress and give 
you a tract to satisfy your hunger.’ 

The scorn with which she spoke was very 


228 


BRTAR AND PALM, 


marked, but the buncliback did not like to see her 
lip curl as it did at that moment. He was looking 
at her perplexedly, as if trying to make her out. 
She looked so young, and yet seemed to have had 
a hard experience of life too, else she had not 
learned to knit her brows so grimly. She had the 
look of one constantly at war with something; there 
was no repose about her, though she was perfectly 
self-possessed. 

‘ I belong to a Society whose aim it is to try and 
better the condition of the poor, and to wrest justice 
from the rich, who are their slave-drivers. We only 
ask justice, and we shall get it too. We are collecting 
facts concerning life in such places as this. I have 
told you this frankly, because you seem intelligent, 
and would resent any questions asked out of idle 
curiosity. This poor lad, I see, earns his living, 
if such it can be called, by making match- 
boxes.’ 

As she spoke she turned her magnificent eyes 
full upon the face of the hunchback. It was 
evident that her feelings were keen, her compas- 
sion quick and true, for her tears started. 

‘ Yes, ma’am,’ he answered simply. ‘ I’ve jes’ 
been sayin’ to Granny that it doesn’t ,pay. You 
see we only get twopence-ha’penny a gross for ’em, 
an’, work as hard as I can, I can’t make more’n two 
gross a day, an’ we find the fire an’ the string.’ 

‘ Twopence - halfpenny a gross,’ repeated the 
visitor, making an entry in her note-book. ‘ No, 
my lad, it doesn’t pay. And what do you do, 
Granny? Do vou make these trousers.’ 


IN DARK PLACES. 


229 


‘ No, ma’am, I’m a finisher,’ answered Granny, a 
little guardedly. 

‘ Tell me what you do to them and what they 
pay you.’ 

‘ I hope you won’t say as I’ve been makin’ any 
complaints, ma’am, becos they’d pay me off, an’ 
work’s that hard to get. I’ve been lucky hevin’ 
’em pretty reg’lar from the same place for a month 
back.’ 

‘No, no, that is the very last thing I would do,’ 
said the stranger quickly. ‘ I assure you that if we 
cannot do you any good we will at least not do 
you any harm.’ 

Thus reassured. Granny stated her miserable 
remuneration, but not in a grumbling tone, though 
she admitted it was not enough. 

‘The times is hard, ma’am, the master says 
— but it’s alius hard times with us, an’ we’ve got 
kinder used to it ; ain’t we, Benjie ? ’ 

‘ Ay, Granny ; but we’ve alius the one sure 
comfort left,’ said the hunchback, and his large, 
melancholy eyes dwelt on the stranger’s face. 

‘ What is that ? I am glad to hear you have 
some comfort. One would not think it,’ she added, 
glancing expressively round the poor little room. 

‘ We know the Lord knows all about us, an’ we’ve 
that bit 0’ His sky to look at. He looks down on 
us o’ nights from there ; doesn’t He, Granny? We 
feel Him quite near sometimes.’ 

‘ I should have thought the Ijord wouldn’t trouble 
Straddler’s Corner much,’ said the lady, with a quiet 
scorn. ‘ The rich have Him as well as other things, 


230 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


poor folk haven’t. The Lord likes those that can 
pay up, that’s about it. He won’t give much for 
nothing.’ 

‘ Oh, ma’am, what a way to speak ! ’ cried the 
hunchback in dismay. ‘ Why, He gives us every- 
think : the light and the sunshine, and the birds 
and all, and He made us all, every one.’ 

‘ If He made us, why doesn’t He provide for 
us ? ’ asked the stranger sharply. ‘ Were you born 
as you are now ? ’ 

‘ No, ma’am ; it was the result of an accident.’ 

‘ Why did He let that accident happen ? If you 
had been an able-bodied man you might have been 
independent, instead of needy and helpless, as you 
are. It is impossible you can be content as you 
are.’ 

‘ Sometimes I am, ma’am,’ said the hunchback 
eagerly, for she had touched a tender point ; she 
had assailed the faith which was the beacon-light 
on his stormy sea of life. ‘ Mostly I am. Granny ’ll 
tell you. The only thing I fret about is not bein’ 
able to go to the Hall in Mile End Road wi’ 
her on Sunday nights. It’s grand there, Granny 
says so.’ 

‘ What do they give you there ? ’ she asked, with 
yet a swifter scorn. ‘ Do they offer to help you 
out of your slough of destitution ? Would they 
give you a sixpence to buy a loaf of bread with, 
these Christians ? No, I think not. They make you 
sing and pray, and tell you to thank God for your 
lot, because He has ordained that there shall be rich 
and poor on the face of the earth. Isn’t that the 


IN DARK FLA CES. 


231 


stuff they feed you with at Charrington’s ? I know 
the set.’ 

Granny rose from her chair, and drew herself up 
with a dignity which gave even her poor shrunken 
figure a touch of dignity. Her black eyes shone, 
her mouth trembled with a righteous anger. 

‘ I don’t know wot yer want, ma’am, nor wot yer 
means to do, but me an’ Benjie don’t want nothin’ 
to do with ye, so please to go away. Me an’ 
Benjie’s knowed the Lord a longer time than we’ve 
knowed you, and it’ll need to be harder times 
wi’ us afore we gives ’im up. So good day to 
ye, ma’am, an’ a better heart. Ye are worse off 
than us.’ 

‘ Very well. Of course if you have no desire to 
better yourselves you must just grovel in your 
misery,’ said the lady sharply, and, gathering 
her skirts about her, she turned to go. Yet she 
hesitated and kept her eyes fixed on the old arm- 
chair where the hunchback sat, as if some magnet 
drew her to the spot. 

‘Wot is it, ma’am?’ asked Benjie softly, and 
with a smile, for he saw the kindliness in her look ; 
there was something about her which won his 
heart. 

‘ Do you suffer much ? ’ she asked, with a gentle- 
ness which sat exquisitely upon her. Her face, 
softened by the earnestness of her pity, seemed to 
Benjie like ihe face of an angel. 

‘ Not much, only sometimes, ma’am,’ he answered. 
‘ Won’t you come back an’ see me again ? I think 
I’d like you to, if Granny ’ud let ye, an’ we needn’t 


232 BRIAR AND PALM. 

speak of tlie missions or tliem things unless you 
like.’ 

It was a shrewd, world- wise speech, but Beujie 
was old beyond his years. 

‘ No, Benjie,’ said Granny firmly. ‘ Not in ’ere 
while I’m in it, if ye please. She ain’t up to no 
good, my man — she ain’t up to no good.’ 

‘ If you wish it I shall come, Benjie,’ said the 
stranger, with her hand on the door. 

At that moment there was a low knock, and it 
was opened from without. 

‘ May I come in ? ’ asked the deep, pleasant tones 
of a man’s voice, and a gentleman in the attire of a 
clergyman entered. He took oflP his hat as he 
crossed the threshold, but it was a moment or 
two before his eyes grew accustomed to the dim 
light and he could discern the occupants of the 
room. 

‘ Oh, Benjie, Benjie, it’s the gen’l’man wot was 
a-spcakin’ last night at the Hall ! ’ cried Granny 
joyfully. ‘ Come in, sir, to be sure, an’ proud 
an’ glad we are to see ye, sir. Yes, indeed, we 
are.’ 

The clergyman hesitated a moment, looking doubt- 
fully at the face of the other visitor, who seemed 
waiting to pass out. He was struck by her exceed- 
ing beauty, but she had hardened her expression, 
her lips were curled in scorn, she drew her skirts 
yet more closely about her, as if she feared contami- 
nation from his touch. 

‘ I hope I have not disturbed your visit, madam,’ 
he said courteously, and with a gleam of that rare 


/iV DARK PLACES. 


233 


smile it was impossible to resist. ‘ My name is 
Frew. I am the new incumbent of St. Saviour s in 
Mile End Road.’ 

The stranger made no reply, but with lips closely 
compressed and head held in air, passed out of 
the room and down-stairs into the noisy street. 


20 



CHAPTER XTX. 


1)AV\'N. 


‘ ’Twas better youth 
Should strive through acts uncouth 
Toward making, than repose on aught found made.' 

Browning. 



I OU are out of sorts, Denis.’ 

‘ Yes, I am well-nigh sick of my life. 

I sometimes wish I had stayed in Cross- 
haven, Gilbert.’ 

The two friends, more closely united than ever, 
were pacing slowly arm in arm along Mile End 
Road, near the Assembly Hall. It was a wet niglit, 
but the traffic in the streets had suffered no abate- 
ment ; the pair were jostled and interrupted 
frequently as they walked ; there is no hour of 
the day or night when the footways of East London 
can be said to be deserted. 

‘ Tell me what is troubling you most, Denis.’ 

* Among so much I could hardly specify. To 
begin, then. Doctor Parsons is a sordid money- j 
grubber, without soul or conscience. He would j 
grind the last farthing out of the miserable wretches s 
among whom he labours, and he expects me to be I 




DAWN. 


23s 


the same. lie knew what he was doing when he 
bound me to him for three years. I am toiled 
night and day, Gilbert, for my paltry hundred a 
year. The post of assistant to an East End practi- 
tioner is no joke.’ 

‘ You did not expect it to be a joke,’ said the 
curate, with a quiet smile. 

‘ No, but I expected to have time and oppor- 
tunity to do a little good. As it is, I am hard put 
to it to get through what is expected of me. If an 
opportunity presents itself to speak a word or do a 
kind deed, I have not the desire to do it ; that is 
what troubles me most. I am just sinking back 
into the old selfish slough. It does seem hard that 
a fellow anxious to do well should be so hardly 
kept down.’ 

‘ It must have its use, Denis, else it would not 
be,’ returned the curate quietly. 

‘ Then I have never obtained the slightest clue,’ 
continued Holgate gloomily. ‘ It is nearly six 
months since I came to London, and in such 
meagre leisure as I have had I have not been idle. 
I have come to the conclusion that they are both 
dead. I wish I were done with life too.’ 

‘ Why, Denis, you talk like a crossed child, in- 
stead of like a strong young man with life before 
you. I know, my friend, that in your experience 
there have been things hard to understand. One 
day you will stand in a clearer light, and see the 
wherefore of it all. I know it who have had my 
share of disappointment and heart-sickness.’ 

‘ If it were not for you, Gilbert, I don’t know 


236 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


where I should be or what would become of me,’ 
said Holgate, with earnestness. ‘ I am thankful I 
have met you to-day, because I have something to 
tell you. I sarw Winifred Barham to-day.’ 

‘ Indeed I Not here V 

‘ No, in Oxford Street, in a carriage beside Lady 
Holgate. She had a widow’s bonnet on, Gilbert.’ 

The curate was silent, and a few steps brought 
them to the doors of the great Assembly Hall, 
where the people were crowding in to the evening 
service. 

‘ I must look in presently and see if they need 
me. Sometimes they are short of speakers, and it 
is a stormy night,’ said he then. ‘ Have you any- 
thing to do to-night 1 ’ 

‘Yes, I am on my way to see a patient in Slack 
Row,’ said Holgate. 

‘ I will take a few more steps with you then. 
Will you describe your sister to me, Denis, if you 
please ? ’ 

‘ I am not sure that I can give you a very 
definite description of her. She was only an un- 
formed girl when I saw her last. She had blue 
eyes and auburn hair, and a pale, colourless face. 
There was no resemblance between us.’ 

‘ She was not a beautiful girl, then?’ 

‘ Oh no, quite the reverse,’ answered Holgate 
quickly, as a memory of his sister rose up before 
him. 

‘You do not think it likely that she would 
develop into a beautiful woman ? ’ 

‘ I don’t think so. Why do you ask ? ’ 


DAWN. 


*37 


* For no particular reason ; I am keeping my eyes 
about me, that is all,’ returned the curate. ‘ So 
you are finding city life short of your expecta- 
tions ? You think it hard that, after giving up so 
much, — for you had a pleasant way of life at the 
dear Haven, — you should have so little worth the 
having here. Keep up your heart, Denis. Do your 
best. It will all come in His good time.’ 

‘ I don’t doubt it. But it is a fearful thing for a 
man to live in the midst of this and to be power- 
less to help.’ 

‘^Not quite powerless,’ said the curate, with a 
smile. ‘ I hear of you sometimes in unlikely cor- 
ners. I have learned to love my friend more in 
I^ondon than I did in Crosshaven, and he was very 
dear to me there.’ 

In spite of himself the surgeon smiled. There 
was a buoyant and sunny heartfulness about Gilbert 
Frew which was wholly irresistible. Under his 
touch mountains of trouble seemed to dissolve like 
snow before the noonday sun. 

‘ Some day, when you* have time, I want you to 
come with me to see two friends of mine, who have 
taught me many a sweet lesson. , There are living 
examples of the Lord’s love and mercy in the 
dark places of the earth, Denis. It is such, I do 
not doubt, that stay the judgment. Do you know 
Straddler’s Corner ? ’ 

‘ By reputation only. Parsons has no patients 
there, I su}>pose because there would be little 
chance of a fee. Who are your friends ? ’ 

‘ I would rather tell you nothing about them. 


238 BRIAR AND PALM. 

Any time you have a leisure hour come for me, 
and we shall visit Straddler’s Corner. I must go 
back now. That is eight ringing. Good-night. 
When are you coming to see us ? The boys are 
often asking for you.’ 

‘ I shall come soon. You have made no com- 
ment on what I told you, Gilbert.’ 

‘ What could I say, that you do not know ? 
My wishes for your happiness are those of a friend, 
Denis. Nothing that is for our good is withheld 
from us. Good-night.’ 

‘ Good-night, Gilbert. God bless you ! You have 
been the salvation of me oftener than you think. 
But for you, I should have made shipwreck of my 
life, — you, and Daisy, and she,’ said the surgeon, 
with emotion, and with an earnest handclasp wei. . 
once more comforted upon his dreary way. 

Denis Holgate was undergoing a hard discipline. 
Life was absolutely without sweetness, except such 
as he could extract from the hard duties of his 
profession. Even these he could scarce do justice 
to, being under the supervision of a hard, grasping, 
small-soulcd man, who regarded his calling simply 
as a means of livelihood, and looked upon his 
patients from a purely mercenary point of view. 
Doctor Parsons gave no advice gratis, nor had any 
hour for free consultation. Holgate could not have 
fallen into worse hands ; there was absolutely no 
community of thought or sympathy between them. 
In London, then, Holgate’s lines had not fallen in 
[ileasant places. Gilbert Frew, out of his true and 
earnest love, was watching him closely and with 


DAWN. 


239 

unspeakable yearning and anxiety. He saw the 
slow developing of a fine character, and even 
with trembling blessed God for it. He felt 
certain that it was but the needful discipline and 
preparation for a nobler life of consecrated service. 
He had an absolute trust in God’s dealing with 
this wayward soul, and foresaw glorious results. 
IMeantime his own work in his new sphere was 
unspeakably precious to him. His heart was per-, 
petually riven with the appalling magnitude of the 
sin and misery around him, but he was by nature 
hopgful ; and even a promise of success where one 
desolate soul was concerned sent him singing on 
his way. Beyond a doubt Gilbert Frew had found 
his sphere ; his home life had its own deep pathos, 
four motherless boys, who clung to him for care 
and guidance in all things, their very helplessness 
giving new strength and a yet more tender touch 
to his fatherly love. There were times, however, 
when Gilbert Frew felt terribly alone, when the 
lack of a woman’s gentle presence in his home was 
most bitterly felt. He could be much, yet scarcely 
all to his boys. He saw that they too missed a 
mother’s care. He did his best for them, and left 
the rest with God. 

When Holgate left him he went back to the 
Hall, but found that his services were not required. 
His allusion to his friends at Straddler’s Corner had 
reminded him that he had not seen them for a 
week ; so he quickened his pace, and threaded his 
way through the labyrinth to that unsavoury place 
of habitation. There was no light in the rickety 


240 BRIAR AND PALM. 

stair, but, the way being now tolerably familiar 
to him, he groped through the darkness to the 
second floor where Granny lived. Just as he was 
about to knock, the low, steady tones of a voice 
arrested him. Some one within was reading aloud, 
a woman evidently, by the low, gentle, musical 
sound. It was not Granny’s voice ; she, poor soul, 
had no time to read, either to herself or to her 
charge. Each minute of every hour represented 
so much food and fire and shelter. 

He knocked gently, and then opened the door. 
He felt no surprise at sight of the figure on the 
low stool by the hunchback’s chair. The little 
table was placed in front of Benjie, who was busy 
with his match-box making, while Granny was 
bending low over her monotonous needlework at 
the other side. A solitary candle flickered in the 
centre of the table, its uncertain light fell full on 
the golden head of the reader as she bent over lier 
book. Her bonnet was lying on her lap, her cloak 
unfastened and thrown back, revealing the beauty 
of her full white throat. 

They had not heard his knock, nor his gentle 
opening of the door, so that he stood a moment 
looking and listening unobserved. She was read- 
ing the tenth chapter of Matthew. The manner 
of her reading and the expression of her face caused 
the curate to think she was performing a task. 
It was a task, however, which seemed to give ex- 
quisite pleasure to her hearers ; both were intensely 
interested, and a sweet smile played about tlie 
hunchback’s mouth as his wasted fingers deftly did 


DAWN. 


2 \\ 


tlieir work. A lame sparrow, Benjie’s pet, had 
gone to roost on the narrow mantel-shelf with his 
little brown head under his wing. The curate 
noted even that in the few seconds he stood within 
the doorway, and he could not but think what a 
picture was the interior of that poor little home. 
Perhaps his interest centred in the reader ; he had 
met her several times at Straddler’s Corner and in 
other poor- places, and was quite at a loss to divine 
who she could be or what her object. He had not 
even learned her name. Presently Granny, reaching 
over for her thread, started and gave an exclama- 
tion at sight of the curate. 

‘ Oh, bless me, sir, come in ! It’s Mr. Frew, 
Benjie. Don’t stop, ma’am. It’s only Mr. Frew, 
wot you’ve met ’ere so often.’ 

‘ I fear I am interrupting a pleasant and pro- 
fitable hour,’ said the curate pleasantly, as he 
advanced into the room. ‘ Do not let me disturb 
you, madam. I shall go presently. I only came 
to ask for our friends.’ 

‘ It is no interruption,’ she said coldly, and rising 
she closed the book and laid it on the table. ‘ I shall 
go now. Perhaps you will kindly finish my task. It 
will suit you perhaps better than it has suited me.’ 

She gave a slight mirthless laugh as she fastened 
her cloak about her throat. Gilbert Frew was at a 
loss what to say. He saw the hunchback’s beauti- 
ful eyes dwelling on her fac6 with unspeakable 
yearning, which seemed to have a touch of com- 
passion in it. He also saw that she was careful 
not to meet that look. 

5>1 


242 BRIAR AND PALM. 

‘ Like yourself, I merely looked in to see our 
friends, and they would have me to read to them 
from this book. And if it pleases them, and they 
imagine it has a message of comfort for them, why 
not ?’ 

She spoke rapidly, and with a slight defiance in 
her tone. 

‘ Imagination has not much to do with it, I 
fancy. There is very real and solid comfort within 
these pages, eh, Benjie ? ’ said the curate, laying his 
hand on the lad’s shoulder. 

‘ Ay, sir ; that’s wot I tell ’er. She doesn’t see 
nor b’lieve it yet, but she will some day, sir ; she 
will some day, cos I’ve axed God to let ’er see an’ 
b’lieve,’ cried the hunchback, with great earnest- 
ness. ‘ She’s the best in the world, sir, only fur 
that ; ax Granny, she thinks the same as me.’ 

The stranger, tying her bonnet-strings with a 
hand which trembled, lifted her eyes to the curate’s 
face. Tlicy had no smile in their depths, though 
a shadow of amusement slightly parted her lips. 

‘ It has a strong hold upon them, sir. If people 
would have as great a faith in each other as they 
have in an unseen and unknown deity, there would 
be less misery in this sad world. I could almost 
say that there would be no such place in London 
as Straddler’s Corner. It is a disgrace to us as a 
nation. The dwellings in which so many thousands 
of our fellow-beings live are a curse upon us, as 
we shall see when it is too late. And we are a 
Christian nation, making a boast of the example 
we set to the world at large. To you and me, who 


DA IVN. 


243 


know a little of this terrible London, it is an 
exquisite satire. You know it, though it is part 
of your creed not to admit it.’ 

Her passion rose as she spoke, the colour flashed 
into her pale cheek, one slight hand was clenched. 
Beyond a doubt she felt most keenly what she said. 

‘You are young, madam, very young, to have 
the weight of such questions lying so heavily upon 
you,’ said the curate gently, his kind eyes fixed on 
her face. 

‘ I am not old as years go, but I have lived here 
in East London all my life. Thought over the 
way the poor live seemed to be born with me. I 
cannot remember the time when I did not think of 
it by day and dream of it by night. And every 
day I live the burden grows, the weight lies 
heavier on my heart. There is a fearful injustice 
to be righted, sir ; the cry of the outcast and the 
oppressed has too long risen in vain to a merciless 
Heaven. The time has come for them to seek 
justice for themselves, to stand at bay before those 
whose greed and selfishness and cruelty have 
ground them into the very dust. Here in this 
very room there are wrongs which it is impossible^ 
to know of and keep silence.’ 

‘We’re afraid of ’er. Granny and me, when she 
speaks like that, sir,’ whispered the hunchback, 
just as if she had not been present to be affected 
by his words. ‘ She ain’t often like that now, sir ; 
and oh, she is gentle an’ good an’ kind ! You 
couldn’t help lovin’ ’er so if you knowed ’er like 
Granny an’ me knows ’er.’ 


244 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


‘ Afraid of me, are you, Benjie ? ' she said, smiling 
upon him with unutterable sweetness. ‘ You know 
well, my lad, I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head. 
Good-night, Granny; good-night, sir,’ she added, 
acknowledging the curate by a slight and distant 
bow. 

He took a step forward. He was intensely in- 
terested in this young girl — she was in reality no 
more ; he must learn something of her. Surely 
no ordinary experience had so hardened a nature 
which, without doubt, had a finer, sweeter side. 
Her kindness, her compassion, her fellowship with 
Granny and her charge were undeniable proof that 
her womanhood was a pure and noble and lovable 
thing. 

‘ If you will permit me, madam, I shall walk 
with you,’ he said. ‘ It is dark and growing late. 
Are you never afraid to be abroad in these unsafe 
thoroughfares alone and unprotected ? ’ 

‘ I ? Oh no, they know me. They would not hurt 
a hair of my head,’ she answered calmly. ‘ I shall 
not trouble you, sir. Your visit is to our friends.’ 

‘ If you please, I will escort you,’ he repeated. 
‘ I can come again to-morrow and see our friends. 
I am sure they will not mind. I should like to 
have some talk with you.’ 

‘ As you please,’ she said indifferently, and with- 
out further remark turned to leave the room. 

The curate allowed her to go, knowing he could 
easily overtake her. 

‘ What is the lady’s name. Granny ? ’ he asked, 
when she was out of hearing. 


DAWN. 


*45 


* We donno, sir, no more ’n ye know yerself. She 
comes an’ goes often here, an’ seems to hev a 
mighty fancy for Benjie an’ the sparrow. She 
doesna take much notice o’ me, though she guv 
me a warm shawl for Sundays, sir, bless ’er, she 
did ! ’ returned Granny. ‘ She sits talkin’ an’ talkin’ 
to Benjie ’ere about the poor folk, and wot the 
Society, as she calls it, are goin’ to do fur ’em. I 
don’t rightly understand wot it aU means, neither 
does Benjie ; but she has a good heart, sir, on’y she 
doesna believe in our Bible an’ never goes to 
church. If on’y she’d go to the HaU, sir, some 
evenin’, it might do ’er good.’ 

‘ And she has never told you her name ? ’ 

* No, nor nothin’ about ’erself, an’ she ain’t one 
as ye can ask. She has a pride, sir, an’ a high 
way wi’ ’er ; but she’s kind, kind to Benjie, an’ likes 
to talk to ’im.’ 

‘ Strange,’ said the curate musingly. ‘ I shall 
not stay to-night, then. Granny. Perhaps I may 
have some talk with her and learn something about 
her. Good-night.’ 




CHAPTER XX. 

A YEARNING HEART. 

‘ She seemed ii«>t great, nor good, 

A soldier witli her banner half unfurled, 

A pure, high nature, half misunderstood.* 

Christina Rossetti. 

T still rained, and a dreary fog had closed 
over the city. It was one of the chilliest 
and most dismal of November nights. 
Gilbert Frew buttoned up his overcoat 
as he stepped from the doorway of Straddler’s 
Corner into the mire and slush of the street. 
Comparative quiet reigned at that hour in the 
vicinity of the Corner ; but through the half open 
door of one of the gin-palaces the curate could see 
that it was thronged with a motley assemblage, 
men, women, and children, grateful, no doubt, for 
the shelter and warmth purveyed by the publican 
for his customers. Gilbert Frew did not marvel to 
see that spectacle ; the marvel to him since his 
coming to London had been that he had found even 
so many decent, temperate, honest peo[)le in his 
parish. His work lay among the lowest and most 
vile, who could not show any visible means of earn- 



A YEARNING HEART, 


247 


ing a livelihood. When he saw their homes, or 
the places which mocked them with their lack of 
every homely attribute, he was not astonished that 
to them the tavern was a species of happy haven, 
and money only precious because it could gain them 
admittance to its privileges. 

In common with hundreds of earnest, thinking 
men and women, with the welfare of his fellow- 
creatures at heart, Gilbert Frew had this problem, 
the horror of life among the lowly, before him 
night and day. His heart was perpetually up- 
lifted to the almighty God, who witnessed and 
permitted its evil and the strange anomaly it 
presented. He did his own part faithfully, and 
through the grace of God had seen more than one 
brand plucked from the burning. He was only 
one of many concentrating every energy upon the 
diffusion of the gospel of peace and the highest 
law of liberty among these outcasts, and doubtless 
others could point to results as fair as his, but 
when it was all calculated, what did it amount to ? 
Sometimes he was obliged to admit that so little 
had been done that it scarce merited recognition. 
There was no visible betterment of the condition 
of the whole ; the mass of crime and misery and 
absolute pauperism remained untouched. 

He passed down the court, and was about to turn 
into the street when he saw the wom.an he sought 
standing by a tavern door looking in. She saw 
him too, and, turning away, waited for him under 
the gas-lamp. 

‘ I was looking at these poor creatures enjoying 


248 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


themselves. They have shelter and heat. We 
cannot grudge them that, such as it is.’ 

She spoke with bitterness. He saw that the scene 
had saddened her, that the whole way of life in the 
place lay heavy on her heart. She had a large 
heart, a widely sympathetic soul, he divined, and 
in a woman these are much. He felt yet more 
drawn to her. 

‘ I am glad I have not missed you,’ he said 
gently. ‘ I should like to talk with you. Will 
you accept the shelter of my umbrella ? ’ 

‘ Thank you, I have my own.’ 

He put it up for her, and they walked a few 
steps in silence. 

‘ May I know whom I have the honour of ad- 
dressing ? ’ he said presently. 

‘ It is no matter. You would not know me any 
better by my name. I am an obscure woman, who 
has known disappointment and poverty and sick- 
ness of heart. Out of these, perhaps, has grown a 
sympathy for others. I would do something to 
better their condition if I could.’ 

‘ You are very young to speak in such a strain,’ 
he repeated involuntarily, 

‘ So you think,’ she answered ; and he saw a 
very slight smile dawn on her lip, giving to it a 
matchless sweetness. 

‘ I am interested in this question also,’ said Gil- 
bert Frew presently. ‘ Any new views are very 
welcome. No doubt you have studied it longer 
and more carefully than I. What do you think 
of its aspect just now ? ’ 


A YEARNING HEART. 


249 


‘ If you mean the condition of the lower classes, 
as they are called in cant phrase, it is as black as 
midnight. It could not possibly be worse.’ 

‘ And the remedy ? ’ 

‘ Is at hand, I hope and trust,’ she answered 
quickly ; ‘ for they are beginning to awaken them- 
selves to a sense of the degradation and injustice 
under which they have so long lain passive.’ 

‘ What injustice ? ’ 

‘ Do you not know ? or is it that you wish me 
to speak plainly ? ’ she asked. ‘ It needs no clear 
vision, no special study of the life of to-day to con- 
vince one that the labour which is undoubtedly the 
wealth of the country is shamefully remunerated. 
The workers who produce all the wealth of society 
have no control over its production or distribution. 
The people, who are the mainspring of society, are 
treated as mere appendages to capital. A change 
must come, sir. There must be more equality. 
Labour must be recognised as the motive power in 
the world. At the present day production is solely 
in the interest of the employing classes.’ 

‘ These are socialistic views, madam,’ said the 
curate. 

‘ Yes, I am a Socialist,’ she returned briefly. 

‘ I have not studied the subject. It is only since 
I came to London that I have been called to take a 
special interest in it. There is without doubt a spirit 
of unrest abroad among the people ; but it seems 
to me that they do not know what they want.’ 

‘ I can tell you. It is justice.’ 

‘ I admit that they have grievances,’ said the 


250 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


curate sadly. ‘ For instance, it is neither fair nor 
just that that old woman and the deformed lad 
we have just left should labour as they do for such 
poor remuneration. But so long as the supply of 
labour so far exceeds the demand, wages wdl con- 
tinue to fall. The only remedy I can see is in 
emigration. We are over-populated here, beyond 
a doubt.’ 

‘ Yes, but there is plenty of space in London for 
us all. Why are we crowded into one portion of 
the city % That the rich may have a fine clear air 
to breathe, and plenty of space for their carriages 
to roll. It is only the accident of their birth and 
education that entitles them to such consideration.’ 

‘ You spoke of equality a little ago. That I hold 
to be impossible. Since the creation there have 
been men who have laboured with their heads and 
others with their' hands. You cannot deny the 
greater power of intellect. If it be wisely employed 
in the organization of labour, and wealth be the 
result, would you say the man of intellect did not 
come by that wealth justly ? ’ 

‘ If his business is carried on upon the present 
capitalist lines, I say no. Take the present factory 
system, for instance. The producers receive only 
about a quarter of the value of their work, the 
employers three - quarters. Yet capital, without 
labour, is incapable of producing. Is not that an 
anomaly ? Surely the half would not be too much 
to ask.’ 

‘ The capitalist must have a return for his risk 
and outlay,’ said the curate. 


A YEAJiNING HEART. 251 

‘ Just so. Selfishness, insatiable greed for profit 
is at the root of the evil,’ she replied, with a slight 
smile. ‘ Until there can be a sweeter spirit of 
brotherhood infused into the hearts of the rich, 
those wrongs will exist. The only alternative is 
for the labourers to take law into their hands.’ 

‘ Nothing but the spirit of Christianity will create 
a sweeter brotherhood,’ said Gilbert Frew, with 
emphasis. 

She shook her head with impatience. 

‘ Christianity is too often made a cloak for yet 
deeper, more grinding selfishness. In our investi- 
gations we have proved that the psalm-singing and 
church-going capitalist is the worst taskmaster and 
slave-driver. That theory is exploded, sir, and 
we are thrown back upon the higher instincts of 
humanity.’ 

‘ Which are of God — planted by His hand,’ said 
the curate reverently. ‘How comes it that one 
so young, and with such undoubted capacity for 
happy usefulness, has so early lost a believing 
heart ? ’ 

‘ It is not possible for me to see and know what 
I have seen and known and retain a faith in an all- 
powerful, all- tender love. They say God is a God 
of love and infinite compassion. So they tell them 
in the HaU here, and send them home to wonder 
when His love and compassion is going to touch 
them. Mr. Frew, if God indeed exist, how can 
such things he f ’ 

‘ There are thousands, madam, who bring misery 
and wrong upon themselves by their own conduct 


2sa AND PALM. 

of life. AVould you hold God responsible for their 
state ? ’ 

‘ You mean that they spend in drink and other 
vices the meagre wages they can earn. I admit 
it. It is not part of our creed to shirk undeniable 
facts/ she returned quietly. ‘But, on the other 
hand, it is the very hopelessness of their condition 
that makes them utterly careless regarding their 
conduct. The brutishness of their surroundings 
deadens manly feelings in their breasts. It is 
common for reformers, who do not understand the 
question, to advise the poor to be thrifty, temperate, 
and industrious. It is not sound advice. To raise 
the tone of the labourers is to improve the instru- 
ments whereby the capitalist may increase his pro- 
fits. The advice may be good for the individual ; 
I do not deny that it is ; but for the wrongs of the 
class it is quite inadequate.’ 

‘ And what, then, is your panacea ? ’ 

‘ The workers must control production until only 
those who work shall obtain any share of the 
profits. Monopolies must be abolished, and society 
established on a new and sound basis of brother- 
hood and loving-kindness.’ 

‘You would desire, then, to see in England a 
repetition of the French Revolution of 1789 ? ’ 

‘ If necessary ; but there is not absolute need. 
If men could be roused to a sense of their duty to 
their fellows, if the truest and best instincts of 
humanity could be awakened in their breasts, there 
would be no need for revolution. But I fear such 
a hope savours too much of Utopia. I do not 


A YEARNING HEART. 


»53 


think that our higher ^culture or our advanced 
education is improving the race.’ 

‘ I repeat that it is only the blessed gospel of 
Christ which can rouse men to a sense of the love 
and duty they owe to their brothers.’ 

‘Do you honestly believe what you say, Mr. 
Frew ? ’ 

‘ I thank God I do. I have had many sorrows 
in my life, madam. Out of these sorrows, by the 
grace of God, has arisen a stronger, more ardent 
desire to do what I can for the furtherance of His 
cause,’ returned the curate, with emotion. 

‘I believe you are in earnest. You do good 
where you can. I have seen it. I have no desire 
to underrate your work. It will bless individuals. 
'J’liey are to be envied who can accept your faith 
with the simplicity of a child. It saves the human 
heart many battlings, many sore agonies, if it can 
thus rest implicitly on a higher power,’ she said, 
with a strange passion. 

The curate saw that the tears stood in her eyes, 
he detected a painful yearning in her trembling 
voice. His heart beat. A word in season might 
be blessed to this strong soul whose questionings 
had led it wholly astray. It might be his privilege 
to utter that word, to awaken in this woman’s 
earnest heart a further questioning which might 
lead her to eternal peace. 

‘ In my old home, a country village by the sea, 
I had a little daughter who was all the world to 
me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘ How I loved her 
you may know some day, perhaj)s, when you have 


254 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


children of your own. I had other children, but 
she was my dearest ; perhaps because she was my 
only daughter, perhaps because she was one of those 
fragile little mortals who seldom stay long on the 
shores of earth. Its winds and waves are too rude 
for them, they are only at home in the land of 
perpetual summer.’ 

‘ And she died ? ’ 

‘Yes, on the evening of the day on which I 
buried her mother. She had wandered along the 
seashore with an old man who had been her friend 
and companion almost from her babyhood. A fog 
came down suddenly, and, wrapping them in its 
impenetrable folds, hid the way from them, and 
they were caught by the incoming tide.’ 

‘ And drowned ? ’ she asked, with a shiver. 

‘ Drowned at our own door. You would ask 
why God permitted that, madam. The child was 
unspeakably dear to me ; the greatest solace of a 
somewhat saddened life, fehe was a child of rare 
promise too, her gifts and graces were very marked 
at her age. I miss her, but I know my Lord has 
her in His keeping, and she is safe from any trouble 
to come. I thank God for my daughter safe in 
heaven, because I know that in a little while I 
shall go to her, though she may not return to me.’ 

‘It is a wonderful faith, and, whether justifiable 
or not, must be of comfort to you,’ said the stranger 
softly. ‘ You have other children ; are they all 
boys ? ’ 

‘ Yes. I have four.’ 

‘ Moth cries >, arc they ? ’ 


A YEARNING HEART. 


255 


‘Yes.’ 

‘ You must have an anxious heart. But you 
have reason to be thankful that they are boys. 
There is no place for girl-children in the world. I 
have proved that by most bitter experience. Good- 
night, Mr. Frew. You have been patient under 
my talk.’ 

‘Must you go here? We shall meet again, I 
trust.’ 

‘ Oh, probably. My work is here, like yours, 
though it has a different aim. If you care to look 
in at the Riveters’ Hall on Friday evening at eight 
o’clock you will hear of me.’ 

‘ May I not know to whom I have been talking ? ’ 
My name would not be familiar to you,’ she 
said, smiling again. 

‘ I must not insist then. It was not mere idle 
curiosity which made me ask. If you are familiar 
with this district, perhaps you can assist me in 
something in which I am interested. Have you 
ever met or heard anything of a widow and her 
daughter named Hoigate ? ’ 

To his astonishment she turned away, and, 
without a word or a sign that she had heard, 
stepped into a passing omnibus and was wiiirled 
away. 





CHAPTER XXL 


THK STING OP REMORSE. 


‘ What is for me 

Whose (lays so wintejly go on?* I 

E. B. Browning, i 

ENIS HOLGATE, wearicil of the moTiotony ' 
of his life, grown hopeless coiiceniing, 
those whom he had eome to London to I 
seek, seemed once more to be standing ■ 
still. To outward seeming he was not advancing j 
a single step in the higher life, or fulfilling a 
single aspiration after the noble and the good. 
He had come to the city filled with a high hope, 
with glowing visions of the wideness of a new 
sphere, of the opportunities for doing real good ' 
which would meet him at every turn, and 16 ! what 
was the reality ? Perpetual bondage to the drudgery J 
of his profession, under a master who demanded J 
his pound of flesh from those whom he paid to j 
serve him. Former experience of his medical i 
brethren had not prepared Holgatc for this ; especi- , 
ally his pleasant relations with his colleague at 
Crosshaven had been poor discipline for the hard 
contrast he had now to face. For six-and-twenty; 




THE STING OF REMORSE. 


257 


years life had been comparatively pleasant for 
Denis Holgate ; he had come to manhood before 
he experienced a single disappointment of any 
consequence. He had been proud of his success, 
of his immunity from the cares which oppressed 
many others, proud of himself and his ability. He 
had also been girt about with an extreme selfish- 
ness, therefore this discipline was very wholesome. 
By slow degrees, of late years, he had learned that 
the world did not lie absolutely at his command, 
and that the circumstances of life would not always 
adapt themselves to his special need. He had 
become a humbler man, and had been obliged to 
cultivate that slow -growing and ofttimes painful 
virtue, patience. 

Gilbert Frew, who had now known him for a 
time, saw the fine development of his character, 
the mellowing of his hasty judgment, the softening 
of his harsher, more unlovable traits, — in a word, the 
making of the man , — with a keen and joyful satisfac- 
tion. No study had afforded him such deep interest 
as the study of this young man. The Spirit of 
God had touched him; through the bitterness of 
a heart-disappcintment he had been brought to 
question regarding this faith, which was the most 
essential part of Gilbert Frew’s life, and, having 
found it suited to his need, had accepted it in all 
sincerity, and would cling to it now to the end. 
But though Denis Holgate was now a Christian 
man, he did not dwell continually on the heights, 
as some ardent and happy spirits do ; nay, he was 
seldom there. Often his faith glimmered only 
22 


258 


BRIAR AND PALM, 


feebly, and was sometimes nearly quenched. It 
was difficult for him, sore perplexed as he was with 
the mysterious problems of life, to walk with blind- 
folded eyes in absolute trust. In his darker hours 
Gilbert Frew was his anchor ; there was nothing he 
could not confide to him, no trivial question he 
hesitated to ask that true friend, who, having 
walked the narrow way for many years, could meet 
him with the ripe wisdom of experience. Two 
thoughts were never absent from the heart of 
Denis Holgate night nor day : the thought of his 
mother and Rhoda, and the memory of the woman 
whose sweet bearing of a heavy cross had first 
stirred in him the nobler thought. 

She was still dear to him ; she was and would 
remain the one love of his life. No other woman 
would ever fill her place. It was a high and 
beautiful thing his devotion to her, a deep-rooted 
feeling which could never do him anything but 
good. He was deeply grateful now to Lydia 
Bolsover for having released him, because, though 
he would most faithfully have fulfilled his duty, 
their marriage could not have been a perfect union. 
As she had said, there would be too many memories 
between them. But the thought of the past which 
concerned her would lie perpetually as a shadow on 
Ins heart. No man could more bitterly regret and 
deplore an unworthy action than he regretted his 
foolish coquetry with a woman’s heart. His own 
pain had taught him to feel for that of others. 
Perhaps, too, he had now a deeper knowledge of 
the delicate mechanism of a woman’s heart. The 


THE STING OF REAIORSE. 


259 


sight of Winifred Barham in London had unsettled 
him yet ‘more. He wondered why they were in 
town early in the season ; it could not be to par- 
ticipate in any of its pleasures, seeing the family 
had evidently been thrown into deep mourning 
by the death of the squire of Scaris Dene. The 
widow’s bonnet framing Winifred Barham’s sweet 
face was the only proof to Holgate that he was 
dead. He had seen no notice in any newspaper, 
and the conclusion had come upon him with a 
shock of surprise. When he had seen him six 
months ago at Crosshaven, he was, comparatively 
speaking, in good health, and there was no reason 
then why he should not live for a year or two at 
least. His disease had not progressed with rapidity, 
and it was improbable that it alone could have 
ended his life in so short a time. He felt anxious 
to know the particulars, and he even looked the 
Directory to find out the town house of the 
Holgates. It was in Hereford Gardens, and in his 
scanty leisure moments he began to haunt the 
neighbourhood. Had she been staying with any 
other family he would not have hesitated to call. 
He did not relish the thought of meeting Sir Fulke 
Holgate again, and would not voluntarily subject 
himself to the humiliation that haughty aristocrat 
had once heaped upon him. Even yet, when he 
thought of that curious experience in the library 
at St. Cyrus, his proud cheek burned. 

In one of these strolls by Hyde Park Corner 
one mild, bright February afternoon Holgate had 
tl’.e desire of his heart. 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


c6d 

He was leisurely walking by the end of the Row 
when a carriage came rolling through the gates. 
It held two ladies ; the one he knew, the identity of 
the other he guessed. He would have kept out of 
the way of observation, but that was not possible ; 
there were very feAv people about, and Winifred 
Barham saw him directly they entered the Park. 
A flush of pleased surprise sprang to her face ; she 
bowed to him, and, slightly rising, asked the coach- 
man to stop. 

‘ That is Doctor Holgate, grandmamma,’ he heard 
her say ‘ I should so like to speak to him for a 
moment. 

The next instant Holgate was raising his hat at 
the carriage door. 

‘ How are you ^ ’ Winifred said pleasantly 
‘ Allow me to introduce you to my grandmother. 
Lady Holgate ; she knows you very well by repute, 
I assure you.’ 

Holgate took off his hat, and his frank, fearless 
eyes turned upon the proud face of the old woman 
who was of nearer kin to him than to Winifred 
Barham. She was a striking - looking handsome 
woman still, in spite of her great age ; her figure 
was held erect, her proud dark eye flashed with 
a light as keen as in her prime. Her thin, pale 
lips trembled as she looked in silence for a moment 
on the face of the young • man at the carriage 
door. 

‘ I am pleased to make the acquaintance of any 
friend of my child’s,’ she said, with a gracious bow, 
which Holgate returned, and then fixed his eyes 


THE STING OF REMORSE. 


261 


once more on the sweet face of the young girl at 
her side. He could not but observe how fresh and 
girlish and free from care she looked now ; it was 
as if some terrible strain had been removed from 
her. So indeed she felt. 

‘ Could you not come and see me ? ’ she asked. 

‘ I should like to tell you about it all. My 
husband died a few weeks after our return to 
Scaris Dene.’ 

‘ I should like to come, Mrs. Barham, but ’ — He 
looked towards Lady Holgate. To the astonish- 
ment of Winifred Barham, she leaned forward and 
held out her hand. 

‘ Come when you like, at any hour of any day. 
I should like to speak with you too/ she said, 
speaking under the influence of agitation. ‘ When 
are you free ? ’ 

‘ I can hardly say ; but if you can fix an hour. 
Lady Holgate, I shall endeavour to make it suit 
me,’ Denis answered a little hurriedly, some- 
thing of her agitation communicating itself to 
him. 

‘ Could you come this evening, then ? We shall 
be at home from six to nine.’ 

‘ I shall do my best to come. Lady Holgate." 

‘ Very well. Do not disappoint us. Come early, 
because I have much to say. What is your name 
— your Christian name, I mean ? 

‘ Denis.’ 

The tears instantly sprang into the old woman’s 
eyes, and she sank back trembling among her 
cushions. 


262 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ Leave us now. Tell Barrett to drive on, 
Winifred. I must not forget myself here,’ she said 
feebly. ‘ Do not forget to come, then, to-night as 
early as possible. Good afternoon.’ 

Holgate confusedly raised his hat once more as 
the restive horses started forward, and the next 
moment he was left standing like a man in a 
dream. 

Winifred Barham was much surprised. She 
could not understand Lady Holgate’s emotion, but 
she did not care to ask any question concerning it. 
Instead of continuing their drive, Lady Holgate 
gave the order to drive home. When they 
entered the house she asked Winifred to accom- 
pany her to her dressing-room. When they were 
alone the old lady sank into a chair trembling ; 
Winifred, looking on, feared that such excitement 
in her delicate state of health might have serious 
consequences. 

‘ Dear grandmother,’ she said gently, ‘ what has 
so upset you 1 I fear you are very unwell to-day. 
We should not have gone out.’ 

‘ I am quite well in body, Winifred. It is 
the mind that is ill at ease,’ she said in a 
low voice. ‘ My child, I am a very old woman 
now, and I have not many good deeds to look 
back upon. I have not long to live, and I have 
not much to comfort me as I draw near the 
grave.’ 

For a moment Winifred Barham did not speak, 
but stood leaning against the table, looking with 
anxious and even wondering eyes on the woman 


THE STING OF REMORSE. 


263 


whom she had alternately loved and feared since 
she had come, a timid, melancholy child, over the 
sea to St. Cyrus Abbey. She seemed much broken 
down now ; the sight of the proud head bent low 
in self-accusation touched -^he heart of Winifred 
inexpressibly. It was like the bending of an 
aged tree that had braved the storms of many a 
winter. 

‘ No, I have not much to comfort me. Winifred, 
live your life as you have begun it, — lovingly, 
gently, kindly, — and when you are old you will not 
be haunted with the phantoms and memories of a 
selfish and sinful past. My dear, I have made 
pride my idol all my life, and it can only mock me 
now.’ 

Winifred Barham slid down upon her knees 
beside the old woman’s chair, and clasped the 
trembling hands firm and fast in her soft palms. 
She had laid her bonnet down, and her hair, 
escaping from its fastening, lay about her shoulders, 
and made a frame for the pure, sweet face shin- 
ing with the love and compassion of her soul. 
Lady Holgate, looking up, fixed her eyes on the 
earnest face with an affectionate but melancholy 
smile. 

‘ I believe you love me, child, in spite of the 
hard destiny I marked out for you. If any gentler 
thought has ever touched my heart, my Winifred, 
it has come through you. Since you have come 
back to me you have awakened in my heart 
yearnings which I do not understand. Tell me, 
my darling, where you have ‘found such strength 


264 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


and courage and sweetness to face the ills of 

lifer 

‘ God helped me, grandmamma, when I was hard 
beset,’ she answered, with a slight falter in her 
voice. She hid her face on the arm of the chair, 
and a slight tremor shook her. There were times 
when the meitiory of the bitter past was like to 
overwhelm Winifred Barham. Her unselfishness 
Avas a thing to marvel at, and even yet she tor- 
mented herself with reproaches, fearing lest she 
had not done her duty by her dead husband. 
Jjady Holgate’s withered hand fell with an infinite 
tenderness on the shining head. 

‘ You have been a living lesson to me, my 
darling, since you came, a timid little child, to us 
so many years ago. Only I hardened my heart 
and closed my ears, and would not listen to the 
sweet messenger sent to show me my folly and my 
sin. Winifred, I am a miserable old woman, with 
the shipwreck of lives lying upon my soul. I 
was a mother, child, without the feelings of a 
mother. I have heard a voice from the dead this 
day.’ 

Winifred lifted her head suddenly and looked, 
not without alarm, on her grandmother’s face. She 
almost thought her wandering, her words had so 
wild a sound. 

‘ Yes, I have heard a voice from the dead, speak- 
ing through the voice of the living. I have looketl 
to-day, Winifred, upon the face of my son’s son, 
and I know how great has been the wrong I did to 
him and his.’ 


THE STING OF REMORSE. 265 

Winifred Barham sprang to her feet in the 
greatness of her surprise. 

‘ Oh, grandmother, can it be ? Doctor Holgate 
your grandson ! — the son of Uncle Denis, whom 
I have always loved since the first time I saw his 
picture in the gallery at St. Cjtus and heard his 
story from Mervyn I It seems impossible. Are you 
sure there can be no mistake. He is not in the 
least like the picture of Uncle Denis, or like any 
of the Holgates, or I might have thought of it.’ 

‘ No, he is not a Holgate, Winifred. He is 
his mother’s living image. Ah, poor Anne 
Braithwaite ! ’ 

Winifred Barham was silent a little. She saw 
that memories were crowding thick and fast upon 
the old woman, and that for the moment she was 
forgotten. 

‘No, there is no mistake. Let me tell you, 
Winifred. When he was in Waveney, he came 
one night to St. Cyrus, — that night you and I dined 
at Eokeby, — and asked for Fulke. He treated him 
like a dog, Winifred, and boasted of it to me Icmg 
afterwards. He did not tell me at the time. Since 
then I have never known peace of mind. I knew 
my son was dead, but I did not know till then 
whether he had left any child. Poor Anne 
Braithwaite ! She must have had a fearful struggle. 
She was a noble and good girl, Winifred ; but she 
was my maid, and my pride was stronger than 
any other feeling. And this young man is the 
rightful heir to Sh Cyrus. Fulke will never marry 
now.’ 


23 


266 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ He is a gentleman, grandmamma, and, more, 
he is noble and good, as you say his mother 
was,’ said Winifred Barham. ‘I shall never for- 
get his goodness during these trying months at 
Crosshaven. But for him, dear grandmamma, 
I feel that I could not have borne it all as 
I did.’ 

Lady Holgate turned her eyes searchingly on 
the girl’s sweet face, but no flush or sign of con- 
sciousness was apparent there. 

‘ For that, if for nothing else, I am deeply in his 
debt. Come and kiss me, Winifred, and leave me 
for a little. I should like to lie down and try to 
rest. Yet I have much to think of, much to plan. 
What if he should not come, Winifred ? That 
would be a fearful disappointment.’ 

‘ He will come; dear grandmother. He pro- 
mised ; and Doctor Holgate never breaks his word,’ 
said Winifred lightly. ‘ It is like a romance, and 
it will have a happy ending. If Uncle Denis’s wife 
is still alive, grandmamma, you will be good to 
her now.’ 

‘ I cannot venture to hope I may have such an 
opportunity, child, and could I dare ask forgiveness 
from her ? I did her a great wrong.’ 

‘ She will forgive you, I prophesy, and I am a 
bird of promise,’ said Winifred, with a sunny smile, 
as she sped away. 

Left alone, Katharine Holgate, with her head 
bowed down upon her hands, faced a part of her 
life which for years an iron will had kept in the 
background. In these sharp moments she recalled 


THE STING OF RpMORSE. 


267 


a long gone agony, for she had suffered in the 
midst of her pride, she had not given up her best 
loved son without a pang. Of late years, when 
health had begun to fail, and she had had to face a 
future for which she was but poorly prepared, 
gentler thoughts had come to her, regrets had 
mingled strangely with her memories of the past. 
Her son’s marriage had been a great blow to her 
pride, and she had hardened herself, believing that 
had her husband lived, he would have acted in the 
same way ; old Sir Fulke had made everything 
subservient to his family pride. She wished now 
she had been less hard ; if only she had sent her 
son and his lowly -born wife on their way with one 
word of comfort or of kindliness, if only she had 
been allowed to whisper her regret to him before 
he died ! She remembered Anne Braithwaite, as 
she sat there in the quiet room ; her gentle, digni- 
fied, ladylike ways, her beautiful face, her soft and 
helpful hands ; and wondered what she would look 
like now, what traces the struggle of a lifetime had 
left upon her. She had done well by the son her 
husband had left to her care, she had sent him 
forth well equipped into the world, but at what 
cost ? Katharine Holgate could not but ask herself 
the question self-accusingly, for, while she had had 
enough and to spare, her son’s widow and child 
might sometimes have known the lack of daily 
bread. She rose heavily to her feet, and began to 
pace the room, her velvet robe trailing noiselessly 
behind<^her, her slender ringed hands nervously 
clasped, her proud mouth trembling, her eyes dim 


268 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


that they could not see. Remorse had its hold 
upon the heart of Katharine, Lady Holgate, and 
its pangs were not easy for her to hear. Mean- 
while Winifred, dear heart, had stolen to the 
library, and, opening the organ there, was playing 
low and softly to herself. A sweet peace was in 
her heart ; for the first time for many months she 
felt most utterly at rest. She could not tell 
why, but it seemed as if the desire of her 
heart had been given her that day. She knew 
she was glad when her eyes dwelt on the face 
of Denis Holgate. He was her dear, true friend, 
who had helped her in the old sad days ; and 
now he might be more, they could claim a tie of 
kinship, which though distant might be very sweet. 
So she was thinking and playing softly in the 
twilight when he came into the room. She was 
not surprised, she was thinking of and expect- 
ing him. So she said when she rose and with 
one white hand laid lightly on the keys turned 
and extended the other to him in friendliest 
greeting. 

‘Good-evening,’ she said, and a sweet smile 
touched her lips. ‘ We must shake hands again, I 
think. Grandmamma has told me, Doctor Holgate, 
and we are cousins, are we not ? ’ 

He took her hand ; his own trembled at its 
soft touch. His face was very earnest as he bent 
over it. 

‘ n you will accord me the privileges of cousin- 
ship, they will be very precious to me,’ he said, 
smiling too. He did not presume to call her by 


THE STING OF REMORSE. 269 

her name. His manner was modest, unassuming, 
but wholly manly. 

She sat down again, and ran her fingers softly 
and lightly over the keys. Both were silent, but 
not embarrassed ; they seemed to know each other 
so well. Holgate’s heart was filled with unspeak- 
able yearning as he looked at the womanly head, 
at the graceful, girlish figure in its black robe, sad 
emblem of her past wifehood. How he loved her 
he had scarcely realized till now, when the possi- 
bility of winning her was within his reach. If he 
wooed, he had a man’s chance to win ; but what 
could he offer her ? A slight and bitter smile came 
upon his lips, and as she turned her head presently 
she saw it. 

‘ What is it. Cousin Denis ? — may I call you 
that ? How miserable you look ! What has vexed 
you ? Are you sorry to make friends with your 
relatives ? ’ 

‘ No ; I was not thinking of that, Mrs. Barham, 
he said, getting out the name with difficulty. 

She turned round on the organ seat and faced 
him, with hands lightly folded on her lap. He saw 
her face pale a little and a touch of the old sad 
earnestness creep to her mouth. He was not sur- 
prised, therefore, at her next woids. 

‘ I should nice to tell you just how it happened,’ 
she said hurriedly. ‘ It was very soon after we 
reached home. He caught a cold on the journey, 
and, being so weak, he could not throw it off. 
Were you surprised to hear of his death ? ’ 

‘ I did not hear of it ; I only surmised it about a 


270 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


fortnight ago, when I met you driving with Lady 
Holgate in Oxford Street.’ 

‘ Did you meet us ? Why did you not speak to 
us ? ’ 

‘ I would have spoken had you been alone, Mrs. 
Barham.’ 

‘ Did you know then that Lady Holgate was 
your grandmother ? Oh, of course you did ! ’ said 
Winifred quickly. ‘ I cannot believe that you are 
the son of Uncle Denis, of whom I have heard so 
much. It is like a romance. Is not life full of 
strange and painful histories ? ’ 

‘ It is indeed, Mrs. Barham,’ said Holgate, with 
bitterness. ‘ It is a record of mistakes and sins 
from first to last, but these do not go unpunished.’ 

‘ Is your mother alive yet. Dr. Holgate ? ’ 

‘ I would I could say I knew, Mrs. Barham. I 
am a miserable man,’ returned Holgate gloomily. 

Winifred looked up in startled surprise, and at 
that moment a servant entered the room. 

‘ Lady Holgate will see you in the drawing-room, 
sir, if you please,’ he said. Holgate nodded and 
turned to go. Winifred Barham, noting his knit 
bro^ 'iand compressed lips, took a step timidly 
towards him. She would plead for the proud heart 
up-stairs, anxious, if it knew how, to atone for the 
injustice of the past. 

‘ Be gentle with grandmamma,’ she said softly. 
‘ She is much broken down. She has been very ill, 
you know ; that is why we are here. Be kind to 
her, as you have been kind to me.’ 

Holgate’s face fluslicd, but he did not speak. 


THE STING OF REMORSE. 


271 


Under his earnest gaze the colour slowly rose in 
Winifred’s cheek, and she turned away, not knowing 
why she should feel confused. 

He passed out of the room, and she heard him 
go up-stairs. She went back to the organ seat, hut 
she did not play any more. And that slight sweet 
blush remained, as if painted on her cheek. 




CHAPTER XXTI. 


THE SAD PAST. 


‘ Oh that the things which have been were iio^ now 
In memory’s resurrection ! ’ 

Bailey. 



jENIS HOLGATE was not conscious of any 
excitement as he followed the servant 
up-stairs to the drawing-room. Time was 
when this would have been a momentous 
moment for him. In the idle days when St. Cyrus 
had been the idol of his dreams, he would have been 
a proud and happy man had he been about to meet 
Lady Holgate in her own drawing-room at her own 
request. But it was different now. He had set 
his thoughts upon more earnest themes ; life for 
him now held things more precious than St. Cyrus. 
There were disappointments a thousand times more 
bitter than any connected with that old heritage, 
liv'ng interests in which he was bound up heart 
and soul. He entered the room unhesitatingly, 
and approached the figure he saw at the other end 
with a fearless step. She watched him come, and 
her old eyes grew bright with pride over him, her 
son’s son, heir to his heritage and his name ! It 


THE SAD PAST. 


273 


was a curious meeting. Holgate was observant 
of each little outward circumstance connected with 
it, just as if he had been an eye-witness, not the 
most deeply interested person whom the issues 
would most seriously affect. He saw that she was 
deeply moved, that she could not speak. She 
motioned him to a chair; in response he placed 
one for her, and asked her gently to be seated. 

‘ No,’ she said at length ; ‘ I could not rest. I 
am excited and unstrung. So you are Denis Hol- 
gate, my son’s son ! Will you shake hands with 
your grandmother, young man ? ’ 

But that she was so serious, Holgate must have 
smiled at the curious form of her address. He took 
the offered hand and held it a moment, then she 
drew it away. 

‘ You are not at all surprised nor overcome by 
this meeting,’ she said. ‘ Either you are not deeply 
interested or you have your feelings well in curb. 
You are like your mother, boy — so like that I seem 
to see her reproachful eyes in yours. I did wrong, 
Denis, I admit ; but there was some excuse for me. 
I deeply regret it now. I would give all I have to 
undo the past. If I could live my life over again, 
my son’s wife, whoever she might be, would be my 
daughter, if she was a good woman and he loved 
her. Your mother fulfilled these conditions, but I 
was hard of heart, and drove her away with cruel 
words. Do you think she will forget or forgive 
these words ? Anne Braithwaite will not forget ; 
she had a deep soul. But do you think she will 
forgive ? ’ 


*74 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


* I know not, indeed, Lady Holgate, whether my 
mother is alive to forget or forgive,’ said Denis 
Holgate wearily. ‘ I have been seeking her in vain 
for months.’ 

‘ Seeking her ! Where ? How is she lost ? It 
is your mother, boy, I am speaking of — Anne 
Braithwaite, who married my son Denis. Where 
is she now ? ’ 

She raised her voice a little, and drew her fine 
figure up with a touch of command. 

‘ I do not know. If you will sit down. Lady 
Holgate, I shall try to make you understand tliis 
apparent mystery. It is not a story which will 
raise me in your estimation ; but I shall not spare 
myself. I was wholly to blame.’ 

Lady Holgate was much surprised. Her agita- 
tion increased. She was glad to sink into a chair, 
for her limbs could scarcely sustain her weight. 

Briefly Denis Holgate recounted the main inci- 
dents of his life. Lady Holgate listening with an 
intense and absorbing interest. 

‘ And she gave you up ? ’ she repeated slowly. 
‘ It was her idea of justice, no doubt, because your 
father gave up so much for her. It was a noble 
sacrifice ; but it was like Anne Braithwaite. Your 
mother is a heroine, Denis. I pray I may not 
have discovered it too late.’ 

‘ And what am I, Lady Holgate ? ’ asked the 
surgeon, with a sad smile. ‘ Have you no con- 
demnation for me ? I have done my motlier a 
greater wrong, since it was for me the sacrifice was 
made. What have I given her in return ? I could 


THE SAD PAST. 


275 


sink to the earth with the shame of it. And my 
poor sister ! When I walk these London streets 
sometimes, Lady Holgate, I am pursued by a haunt- 
ing fear lest she, left to herself, should have become 
a waif in this great and evil city. There are times 
when my burden is greater than I can bear.’ 

‘ We must make search without delay,’ cried Lady 
Holgate, rising as if imbued with a new energy. 
‘ No expense must be spared. The best means 
must be employed. If they are alive and in Lon- 
don we shall find them, my boy, before we are 
many hours older.’ 

The surgeon shook his head. 

‘ I have not been idle. Do you suppose I have 
not been searching ? This cruel uncertainty may 
be my punishment for my sin, and, though it 
may seem well-nigh unbearable, I cannot say it 
is undeserved.’ 

‘ You are hard upon yourself. You only obeyed 
your mother’s behest. It was she who made the 
mistake. I grant that one was made. You were 
young, and could not be expected to judge between 
right and wrong. See how quickly you have 
striven to do right when a larger knowledge has 
come to you.’ 

It was a kindly thought which prompted her to 
comfort him. This new gentleness and thought 
for another was inexpressibly beautiful in this 
proud woman. It touched Holgate; he raised 
grateful eyes to her face. 

‘ You comfort me,’ he said simply. ‘ I thank 
you for it, Lady Holgate.’ 


276 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ Do not thank me. It is nothing. You ought 
to reproach me. It is at my door all this wrong 
and misery must be laid/ she said quickly. ‘ I do 
most bitterly regret it. What you have told me 
has added a new bitterness to that regret. But we 
will be hopeful. All may yet be well.’ 

‘ I have not given up hope/ said Holgate, but 
not in a very hopeful voice. 

‘ You have not told me yet what way of life you 
pursue in London. Are you in practice ? ’ she 
asked. 

‘ No ; I am only an assistant, and likely to re- 
main so for some time. I have not the heart to 
strive for anything higher yet. Until I have 
learned the whereabouts or the fate of my mother, 
Lady Holgate, I am practically a useless man.’ 

‘ Give up whatever tie you have made and come 
here. It is your rightful place,’ she said quickly. 

He shook his head. 

‘ I shall come, if you will permit me, from time to 
time, while you are in town,’ he answered quietly. 

‘ Why will you not come ? Is it pride, or a 
feeling of pique against us % Do you know you arc 
your uncle’s heir ? ’ 

‘ I may be ; but, though I do not bear malice, I 
have no desire to see Sir Fulke again,’ said Holgate, 
still quietly, but with slightly heightened colour. 

Katharine Holgate admired him for that touch of 
pride. 

‘ I admit that your uncle is not the most amiable 
of men, but you need not come in contact with him, 
nor even go near St. Cyrus while he is there. I 


THE SAD PAST. 


277 


would, not ask you to be dependent on him. I am 
a rich woman, Denis ; my money and my lands are 
yours by right as they were your father’s. Is not 
that a different thing ? ’ 

‘ You are generous and kind, Lady Holgate,’ re- 
turned the surgeon in the same quiet way. ‘ But 
in the meantime I would rather fight my own 
battle. Suppose I was in full enjoyment of your 
generous kindness, would I be a happier man ? I 
will gladly take your money, if you will give it, for 
the benefit of the poor creatures with whom my work 
brings me in contact ; for myself I cannot take it.' 

‘ You have your mother’s pride, Denis. Perhaps 
when you know me a little better you will grant 
an old woman’s whim. You knew, I suppose, that 
Mrs. Barham, whom you knew at Crosshaven, was 
the daughter of the wife my youngest son Bevis 
married at Bombay.’ 

‘ Yes, I knew that. When I was at Waveney 
they told me the story.’ 

‘ When her parents were drowned she was sent 
home to us, though she had no claim upon us. 
God forgive us ! we were not very kind to the poor 
child. It might have been as well had she remained 
in India. When she grew up a fair sweet girl, you 
can imagine what like she was. Your uncle Fulke 
fell in love with her, Denis.’ 

‘ So they told me at Waveney, Lady Holgate.’ 

‘ Did they tell you, too, that we forced her into 
marriage with a man whom she did not, could not 
love, with whom she had not even a thought in 
common ? ’ 


278 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ I saw tliat for myself at Crossliaven, Lady 
Holgate,’ said the surgeon, and slightly turned his 
head away. 

‘ It was a cruel shame. If she were not an angel, 
Denis, she would hate us. Yet she is my greatest 
comfort now. There is no hardness in her heart 
against me ; but she will not go where your uncle 
is, Denis. She mistrusts him, her heart is not at 
rest in his presence. I have not been at St. Cyrus 
since Guy Barham’s death. Winifred and I have 
been at Scaris Dene together, and now we are here 
for my health. I have required to consult a 
physician here. We intend to spend a few weeks 
at Crosshaven, in the Rectory, if it is possible to 
get the house. Will you come and see us there ? ’ 

‘ Thank you, I will.’ 

‘ I have no comfort on the face of the earth 
except Winifred, Denis. My son Fulke and I do 
not agree. Perhaps we are too much alike. I have 
not had much happiness in my children. The one 
who would have done his duty for love of me I 
banished from my presence. Do you remember 
your father ? ’ 

‘ Not vividly. 1 have a faint remembrance of 
some one who was always ill, but who spoke very 
kindly and used to pat me on the head. Ehoda 
could not 'remember him at all.’ 

‘ Rhoda ? Tell me about Rhoda, my own grand- 
daughter ! Perhaps if we find her she may allow 
me to love her. Is she like you ? ’ 

‘ She was not when I last saw her. Poor Rhoda ! 
A lifetime of earnest reparation could never take 


THE SAD PAST. 


279 


away tlie sting of my self-reproach. I despised her 
because she was poor and ignorant. I did not 
think of my own complete selfishness in taking 
all, while she had nothing. It stands before me 
now with fearful vividness. I must go now, Lady 
Holgate. I have already outstayed my scanty 
leisure.’ 

She looked at him with yearning, affectionate 
eyes. 

‘ I can scarcely let you go. Your place is here ; 
you are my son’s son,’ she repeated, as if she loved 
the words. 

‘ I shall come back,’ he said, with a slight smile. 

‘ But it is not right nor fit that a Holgate should 
labour as you are doing in such a way. You should 
not be at the call of any man.’ 

‘ I pray that no Holgate may ever sink lower. It 
is at least honourable toil,’ said Denis quickly. He 
could not help the reproach. It sprang to his lips 
and escaped them before he could keep it back. 
But it did not offend her ; she felt the truth of his 
words. 

‘ You are right,’ she said humbly ; ‘ I spoke without 
thinking. It is a fearful thing this pride which 
rules the world, Denis.’ 

He was silent a moment, recalling that evening 
years ago in the little house in Hanbury Lane, 
when his mother had spoken words to the same 
effect. It seemed a lifetime since then. He 
turned to her listlessly, for one thought was so 
absorbing that the full interest of any other thing 
was marred for him. He was in his grandmother’s 


28 o 


BRIAR AND BALM. 


house, acknowledged by her ; she was begging him 
to make his home with her, to take all she could 
give, and it was as nothing to him. He felt no 
desire for the things she offered. Surely there was a 
great change in Denis Holgate since the days when 
he had haunted St. Cyrus, dreaming of it night and 
day. 

‘ You must see Winifred, Denis. I should like to 
introduce you on the new footing. You are cousins, 
you know,’ said Lady Holgate, rising and moving 
towards the fireplace to ring the bell. 

‘ 1 saw her down-stairs. She was in the library 
when I was shown in. If you will excuse me, I 
shall go now. I must make haste, or Doctor 
Parsons will take me to task. Good evening. Lady 
Holgate.’ 

‘ Is it to be Lady Holgate always ? I am your 
grandmother, boy. Is it so hard for you to have a 
kindly feeling towards me ? ’ she asked, as she took 
his strong hand in her poor nervous clasp. Tears 
were in her proud eyes, her mouth trembled, her 
heart was yearning over the lad. She saw in him one 
she could love and trust, in wljom she could take 
pride as she had never taken pride in her own. 
And she had had no hand in the building up of this 
fine manly character ; it was the work of others 
in which she must take pride now. 

To do the right thing at the right moment, to utter 
j ust what words were fittest and best for the occasion, 
was natural to Denis Holgate. He bent his head and 
kissed the deep-lined brow, saying, with a slight 
smile, but with earnest, speaking eyes, — 


THE SAD PAST. 


2S1 


* Good-bye, grandmother. I shall come back very 
soon. I think we will be friends.’ 

‘ And you forgive the past ? When I see your 
kindly eyes bent upon me, I feel as if my son had 
forgiven me,’ she said falteringly. ‘ You will be 
certain to come back ? If I were to lose you now, 
Denis, it would break my heart.’ 

* I will come again, if I can, to-morrow, grand- 
mother,’ he repeated as he left the room. When 
he went down -stairs he found Winifred standing 
within the curtains at the library door. Her eyes 
were full of questioning. He could not but enter the 
room a moment with her, to set her anxiety at rest. 

‘ I hope it is all right, and that you and grand- 
mamma are friends. Doctor Holgate ? ’ 

‘ It is all right. I am very sorry for her. How 
true it is, Mrs. Barham, that all our mistakes and 
shortcomings bring their own weight of care in 
their train. The past is lying heavy on her heart. 
Pray for us both, that we may have opportunity 
granted to make reparation.’ 

‘ I do not quite understand you,’ she said. ‘What 
have you done that needs reparation ? You, who 
have ever been ready to help others to the utter- 
most ; whose life, even now, is wholly given up for 
others ! ’ 

‘ I only wish your sweet opinion of me were 
justified, Mrs. Barham,’ he said in a low voice. 
‘ Lady Holgate will tell you. Try not to think too 
hardly of me.’ 

In her deep interest and strong sympathy, it 
seemed natural that she should go near to him, 

24 


283 


BJ?IAR AND PALM. 


that she should lay her kind hand on his arm. 
She did not notice how his face flushed at her 
gentle touch. 

‘ Whatever I may hear, it will not change me. I 
shall never forget that you were my friend when I 
most needed one, when, but for you, I was most 
utterly alone. Nothing can ever alter that, or 
make it less precious in my eyes.’ 

He bent his eyes on her sweet, earnest face, 
which was shining upon him like that of an angel 
of promise. A moment more, and he must have 
forgotten himself, and uttered words which he 
might wish to recall. 

‘ For that I thank you. God bless you, Winifred 
Barham, for ever and ever, and make you a blessing 
to others, as you have been to me !’ he said hoarsely, 
and without another word quitted her presence. 

She was left bewildered by the strange abruptness 
of his manner ; her heart was beating ; she seemed 
to feel his earnest, passionate look in her very soul. 
I believe that at that moment, and for the first 
time, it dawned upon her that there might be in 
life a love which could give to the human heart a 
foretaste of heaven. She crept back to the organ 
seat, and, crouching there in the shadows, bent her 
head on the keys, and sat silent a long, long time. 
It was an hour of awakening for Winifred Barham. 
Her life, instead of being ended as she had some- 
times thought, looking back on the long, sad past, 
was all before her, full of loveliest promise, of 
possibilities which might yet give to her woman- 
hood its sweetest ciuwii. 


THE SAD FAST. 


283 


The time had sped quickly while Denis Holgate 
was in the house. He was astonished when, looking 
at his watch on the steps outside the door, he found 
that it was nearly nine o’clock. As he hurried into 
the street, he saw a figure walking leisurely to and 
fro the pavement. As he drew nearer he recognised 
Gilbert Frew. Needless to say, that faithful friend 
had been made acquainted with the event of the 
day, but it was not altogether anxiety to hear the 
result of his interview with Lady Holgate that 
had brought him to Hereford Gardens. 

‘ I am lying in wait for you, you see ! ’ he said, 
meeting him with a smile. ‘ Now tell me, can you 
go with me to a meeting in the Riveters’ Hall in 
Mile End Road ? ’ 

Holgate shook his head as he linked his arm 
through that of his friend. 

‘Not to-night. Parsons will have a few select 
remarks to make as it is. Well, I have bearded the 
lion in his den, Gilbert. It has not been a very 
trying ordeal. My grandmother, in spite of her 
pride and her high estate, is only a woman after 
all ; and she has fretted herself nearly into the 
grave over a wrong which she might have righted 
long ago. She was very kind to me.’ 

‘There was no reason why she should not be,’ 
said Gilbert Frew a trifle drily. ‘Did she look 
down upon you from a condescending height ? ’ 

‘ Oh no, there was nothing of that kind about 
her. That sweet soul who is with her has influenced 
her, as she influenced me.’ 

‘ You saw Mrs. Barham, then ? ’ 


284 


BRIAR AND PALM, 


‘Yes, I saw her. It has not done me good, 
Gilbert. I love her a thousand times more dearly 
than ever, if that were possible.’ 

‘ And why should you not ? The future is full 
of sweet promise for you, Denis. Keep up a brave 
heart. Brighter days are at hand for you all.’ 

The surgeon once more shook his head. 

‘ So long as the old shadow lies on my heart, 
Gilbert, I must think of nothing else.’ 

‘ That, too, may lift,’ said the curate cheerily. 
‘ The darkest hour — you know the rest. Well, are 
you coming to that meeting with me ? ’ 

‘ I can’t ; I must go to my work. Besides it is 
too late. What kind of a meeting is it ? ’ 

‘ I don’t quite know, but I believe we can drop 
in at any time. I want you to come, Denis, if only 
for five minutes.’ 

‘ The Riveters’ Hall ! That’s a queer place, 
Gilbert,’ said Holgate, recalling the meeting-place. 
‘ Well, I’ll come if there’s nothing particular to do, 
though 1 don’t know what good five minutes in 
such a place will do us. It will be long enough, 
however. We had better take this hansom and 
drive to Parsons’, and thence to the Hall then.’ 

The curate nodded, and in a few moments they 
were being rapidly whirled through the streets to 
the East End. They did not talk much, each 
being busy with his own thoughts. It was Friday 
night, and, referring to his note-book early in the 
evening, the curate had found that it was the night 
that the stranger he had met at Straddler’s Corner 
had invited him to visit the Riveters Hall. Tliey 


THE SAD PAST. 


285 


found Doctor Parsons out, and, there being no 
message for the assistant, they drove on to the 
Hall in Mile End Eoad. They dismissed the 
hansom before they reached the door, and walked 
in quietly, though, their entrance was commented 
on by a few loungers about the steps. Both were 
well known in the district. 

The curate led the wajq conscious of a strong 
excitement ; Holgate followed carelessly, wondering 
a little as to the meaning of this freak of his 
friend’s. As they entered the gallery, there was a 
hearty round of applause, the audience being on 
their feet, waving their hats and handkerchiefs. It 
was a motley assemblage ; and there were evidently 
some of the roughest elements of Whitechapel pre- 
sent. On the brilliantly lighted platform there 
were two people ; a puffy-looking individual, 
evidently the president of the meeting, seated in 
a chair, and the figure of a woman standing at the 
table, with one ungloved hand lying on some 
papers from which she seemed to have been speak- 
ing. She wore a plain black gown, which showed 
a fine, graceful, ladylike figure, and the close bonnet 
made no unbecoming frame for a singularly beau- 
tiful face. Her eyes wore sparkling, her cheek 
flushed with excitement. Gilbert Frew noted all 
these details the moment he entered the gallery 
door. His friend, being behind, could not see until 
he stepped aside to let him forward. 

‘ There is a lady on the platform, Denis. It is 
she whom I wish you to see. Do you know her ? ’ 

‘ It is not likely. What an odd question ! ’ said 


286 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


Holgate, with a laugh, as he stepped forward to 
obtain a fuller view of the platform. 

It was a moment of curious suspense for the 
curate. He did not know till then what hopes he 
had built on a possibility which might be utterly 
without foundation. He watched his friend keenly, 
and instantly saw a strange grey pallor creep up 
over his face. He caught his arm as he staggered 
back. 

‘ Let me out, Gilbert, for a breath of air away 
from these staring eyes. As I live, that is my 
sister Rhoda 1 ’ 




CHAPTER XXIIL 

LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 

‘ Love doth ever shed 
Rich healing where it nestles — spread 
O’er desert pillows some green palm.’ 

Gerald Massey. 

the landing outside they stood still, and 
Holgate leaned against the wall. He was 
quite overcome. Gilbert Frew wisely let 
him alone for a little, and himself paced 
slowly to and fro the long passage. From within 
the clear, sweet tones of the lecturer’s voice were 
audible, though they could not distinguish the 
words. 

‘ I ha^ e hoped and prayed for this, Denis,’ said 
the cura-te at last, pausing before his friend with 
a bright, happy face. ‘I thank God for the ful- 
filment of your hopes, for the answer to my 
prayers.’ 

Holgate started up and caught him by the arm. 

‘Let us go in and hear what she is talking 
about,’ he said excitedly. 

They entered the gallery door, and, standing well 
back behind a sheltering pillar, looked and listened 



288 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


with the rest. It was a very curious experience 
for them both, one which it was not likely they 
would ever forget. Both were absorbed in the 
personality of the speaker ; Denis fixed his eyes 
on her face with a gaze which might have attracted 
her, and he wondered as he looked. Could that 
beautiful woman, with the proud, high-bred face 
and the grace of a queen, be the poor depressed 
girl whom he had been wont to regard with a half 
contemptuous pity in the old mistaken days ? He 
was struck by one thing chiefly — her striking 
resemblance to Sir Fulke Holgate. The beauty she 
had inherited from her high-born father had now 
developed, and she carried her birthright in every 
movement, — every gesture was instinct with a 
natural grace. Rhoda was a lady ; thpre was 
nothing common about her now. She stood before 
her audience like one born to command. They 
hung in breathless attention upon her words, 
impressed as much by her personality as by the 
message she had for them. Holgate and his friend 
only heard the closing words of her address, but 
from them they gathered what had been its gist. 
She spoke quietly, and not with the enthusiasm 
which Gilbert Frew, remembering the bitter emphasis 
of her conversation with him, might have expected. 
There was nothing bold or unwomanly in her action 
or attitude, but the very idea of seeing his sister 
there made Denis Holgate sick at heart. 

‘ We have seen, then, my friends,’ she said, ‘ some 
of the fearful results accruing from this competitive 
system which leaves capital wholly in the hands of 


LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 289 

individuals. A few are rich, some free from sordid 
care, but the majority are in poverty, and a large 
number in abject misery. We have also touched 
upon the immediate and sole remedy. I have only 
to impress it once more upon you before I sit down. 
Poverty and degradation have too long been your 
portion, you in whose hands alone the production 
of wealth lies. On scanty and uncertain wages you 
are expected to maintain the independence, self- 
respect, and honesty of men and women. The 
selfish rich capitalists, who so long have been your 
taskmasters, must be shown the impossibility of 
this. If need be, they must be made to taste the 
sweets of badly paid labour themselves. There 
must be no more creating of wealth for the in- 
dividual. You must learn and realize the responsi- 
bility of your unused powers. The oppressors soon 
will need to look to themselves and their children, 
for, unless some of the fearful wrongs of the poor 
are redressed, a desperate and miserable people will 
rise to-seek justice for themselves. The revolution 
will come ; already its shadow is upon us. We 
must be prepared for it ; we must see to it that 
those who rise when the day comes are a combined 
and,intelligent people, wise enough to know their 
own rights, strong enough to insist upon them, and 
disciplined and honourable enough to guard them 
in purity when they are v’en. Till then take 
courage, gather strength, and look into the future 
with hopeful, happy hearts. The dark clouds are 
rolling backward from the horizon, the dayspring 
of peace, and prosperity, and absolute relief from 
25 


290 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


sordid care for yourselves and your children, is at 
hand.’ 

She stepped hack from the table a little hurriedly, 
and took the chair the president of the meeting at 
that moment vacated. Amid the deafening applause 
he took her place, and began his remarks with a 
complacent and singularly unpleasant smile. 

They were not at all to the point, and consisted 
of fulsome and vulgar compliments applied to the 
lecturer. The two behind the pillar in the gallery 
saw a look of weariness and disgust on her face, 
and the vociferous applause with which her chair- 
man’s eulogiums were received by the audience 
made her cheek burn. Immediately he had con- 
cluded, she rose and swept off the platform. Again 
Holgate grasped his friend’s arm. 

‘ Come,’ he said hoarsely. ‘ We must go round 
to the rooms and see her. We may lose her, 
Gilbert. I dare not miss this opportunity.’ 

‘ We could not lose her entirely now. From here 
she could be easily traced,’ the curate answered. 
‘ But we had better go round. You will not be 
satisfied else.’ 

‘ To see her there, Gilbert — it unmanned me ! ’ he 
said as they sped down-stairs. 

‘ Hush, Denis ! Be grateful to God that it is 
no worse,’ was the reply, and Denis felt himself 
rebuked. The curate led the way, and, asking a 
man lingering in an inner lobby, evidently a care- 
taker, in which room the lady could be found, was 
pointed to a door at tlie farther end. 

He knocked there, and was immediately asked 


LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 


291 


to enter. When they opened the door_they saw 
the lady standing at the table tying up the papers 
she had used in the hall. 

‘Is that my cab? I shall be out presently. 
Does it rain, Jacobs ? ’ 

Receiving no answer, she swiftly turned her head. 
The two men entered the room and shut the door. 

‘ I shall go, Denis,’ said the curate, taking a back- 
ward step ; but Holgate held him by the arm. 

‘ No, stay ; I have no secrets from you,’ he said. 
Then there was a moment’s absolute and painful 
silence in the room. 

Her recognition of her brother was instantaneous. 
The colour died out of her face, till she became 
white to the very lips. Her hand trembled slightly, 
but she tried to recover herself; she drew herself 
up and looked him straight in the face with cold 
inquiry. She did not even appear to recognise 
Gilbert Frew. 

‘Well?’ she said, and her voice was curiously 
clear and calm. ‘ What do you want with me, 
Denis Holgate ? ’ 

Then a strange thing happened. Denis Holgate 
sat down by the table, and, burying his head upon 
his hands, burst into tears. For a -few seconds 
there was no sound but the voice of a strong man 
sobbing in the room. The curate felt his own 
composure going, and, what was more important, 
he fancied he saw Rhoda’s proud mouth quiver. 
Just then the door opening on to the platform was 
opened, and the chairman, rubbing his hands, and 
wearing the same bland, disagreeable smile, was about 


292 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


to enter, when she turned her head, and waved 
him back. 

‘ Be good enough, Mr. Grotham, to withdraw, 
and leave me alone with these gentlemen,’ she said, 
with the gesture and the look of a queen. 

Mr. Grotham hastily withdrew and shut the door. 
The greatness of the surprise and bewilderment on 
his face was comical. Gilbert Frew, without a word, 
opened the door by which he had entered and left 
the room also. What these two had to say to each 
other, no stranger had any right to hear. So they 
were left alone. 

Ehoda Holgate, without glancing again at her 
brother, continued the rolling of her papers ; but 
now her hands shook, one by one the loose sheets 
fluttered to the floor. Her excitement was rising ; 
she knew she could not much longer be calm. She 
leaned against the wall and folded her arms. Her 
brows were knit, her eyes troubled, her mouth now 
and again visibly trembled. She felt the unutter- 
able yearnings of her heart ; had she obeyed their 
behest, she would have knelt by his side and laid 
her arms about his neck. He was her brother, and 
she loved him. She scorned herself even while she 
admitted it. Did he deserve her love ? she asked 
herself bitterly. Perhaps not, but the fact remined. 
It is the mark of highest womanhood to love and 
to forgive seventy times seven. But Rhoda was 
supposed to have abjured the weaknesses of her sex ; 
she ought by this time to have been above being 
moved even by the tears of a brother. She could 
not understand this thing at all. It puzzled and 


LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 


293 


troubled her to see him there, apparently in the 
abandonment of grief. Of course she knew nothing 
of the long strain of suspense and anxiety he had 
borne, else she would have understood. That strain 
removed, he could not sustain his self-control, pent- 
up feeling demanded its most natural vent. 

It seemed a long time before he spoke. In reality 
it was but a few minutes. Before she had time to 
think the matter out, he rose suddenly and knelt 
at her feet, catching her hands in a grip from which 
she could not release them. She felt them wet 
with his tears. 

‘ Rhoda,’ he said, and the tones of his voice, so 
long unheard, went to her heart, ‘ will you forgive 
me? I cannot explain away or excuse what I 
have done ; only forgive me, and let me live to 
atone for the past.’ 

A strange feeling came over Rhoda. She had 
never heard such words. She did not know how 
her heart had hungered for love. It had asked 
bread, and she had given it a stone. Since she had 
crossed the threshold of womanhood she had learned 
that there is nothing upon the wide earth will 
satisfy a woman’s need save love alone. But she 
had battled bravely on, doing good according to her 
light, making herself the slave of a mistaken idea, 
yet with a motive which was wholly noble and 
pure. She had sometimes, in her most bitter 
moments, pictured a meeting with the brother who 
had turned his back upon them because they were 
poor ; she had even mapped out a course of action, 
and planned the scathing words she should utter 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


294 

when that day came. What did she do now ? Did 
she draw herself up, and with finger of unutterable 
scorn point him away from her % Did she heap 
reproach upon him, taunt him with his selfishness, 
and bid him go, for those whom he had left had no 
need of him, having cast him off ? She lifted one 
hand and laid it on his head, and her own tears fell 
upon it. He felt them, and, rising slowly to his feet, 
looked into her eyes, and, putting his arm about 
her, drew her to his heart. And there was a long, 
long silence in the room. Rhoda loved the touch 
of that sheltering arm ; she nestled close to it and 
hid her head upon his breast. And Denis Holgate 
clasped his sister yet more closely, and thanked 
(lod as he had never yet thanked Him. A strange, 
deep, sweet peace seemed to fall upon both their 
hearts. To Rhoda it was as if after strong battling 
with wind and wave she had been wafted into port. 
She had not a question to ask. She knew that all 
was well, that Denis had come back, to be what he 
had never been, that now she knew something 
of the sweetness of the tie between brother and 
sister. She had not even a desire to ask how it had 
come about ; she accepted the joy which had come 
thankfully and without a misgiving or a doubt. A 
true woman was Rhoda then, after aU, 

‘ Our mother, Denis,’ she said at lengtL ‘ Let 
us go to her.’ 

‘ I feared to ask,’ he faltered, with a great earnest- 
ness. ‘ Is she yet alive % ’ 

‘ Yes ; not so well as she used to be,’ said Rhoda, 
touching but lightly on what had been, lest she 


LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 295 

should pain him more. ‘ But you will make her 
well.’ 

She smiled as she released herself from his 
encircling arm. No face ever was more beautiful 
than hers, bathed in the glory of that smile. 

‘ You are forgetting your papers, Rhoda,’ he said, 
pointing to the scattering on the floor. 

‘ Let them lie ; poor rubbish at best ! ’ she said, 
with a swift, strange smile. ‘ I preach what I do 
not believe, Denis. It is a case of taking the 
long journey or none at all. I am sick of it, 
and growing more sick every day. Come, let 
us go.’ 

She took his arm and leaned upon it, looking up 
with radiant eyes into his face. I fear this change 
in Rhoda may seem unreal, too sudden a transforma- 
tion, but it had been working in her heart for long. 
She had found the emptiness of the things she was 
pursuing; this unlooked-for restoration was the 
crowning touch. She did nothing by halves ; 
wholly or not at all was her creed. Her absolute 
forgiveness, her sweet welcome of the long lost one, 
was characteristic of the whole woman. A great 
woman, a grand woman, who would yet make of 
life a grand sweet song, was Rhoda Holgate. She 
was just at the turning-point. The Lord in His 
mercy knew how to deal with her. He would yet 
lead her to loveliest consecration of her life to His 
service and praise. 

In the corridor outside they came upon Gilbert 
Frew. They had forgotten him, but now Rhoda 
had time to wonder how he had come there. He 


296 


BJilAX AND PALM. 


did not wait for them, but went out to the street, 
and was standing at the cab door when they came 
out. A look at their faces was enough for him, 
and a smile came to his lips. There were a 
few loungers on the steps waiting to see the 
lecturer drive away, but she did not appear to 
see them as she passed out, leaning on her brother’s 
arm. 

‘ Rhoda,’ said Denis Holgate, ‘ let me introduce 
to you Gilbert Frew, the best and truest friend 
man ever had. Gilbert, you see my sister has 
forgiven me.’ 

His voice was unsteady. The curate saw how 
deep was the emotion surging in his soul. He 
looked at Rhoda and extended his hand. She laid 
hers in it with a radiant smile. She knew that she 
was pleased to see him at that moment, that he did 
not seem to be an intruder. 

‘We are friends already,’ he said, ‘Now, 
where is your man to go ? He is growing 
impatient.’ 

Denis Holgate opened the cab door and helped 
his sister in, then motioned to his friend. But he 
drew back. 

‘Not to-night. You have no need for me. To- 
morrow I shall see you. Good-night, and God 
bless you both.’ 

So saying, he raised his hat, and before they could 
detain him he was gone. 

‘The man knows where to go. He has often 
driven me,’ said Rhoda, and Denis stepped in 
beside her and shut the door. 


LOVE CONQ UEES ALL. 297 

‘ I don’t want to say very much to-night, Ehoda, 
though I have a long, long story to tell,’ he said, 
as they drove away. ‘ But I must ask one thing. 
Why did our mother leave Hanbury Lane ? Did 
the business fall away ? ’ 

‘No. It was I who did it,’ Ehoda returned 
in a low voice. ‘ Soon after you went away her 
health began to droop. It was just as if her interest 
in life had expired. She seemed to have nothing 
to do. I always hated the shop, Denis, and when 
it was left almost entirely to my care the custom 
dwindled away. I had become interested in other 
things, and acquainted with people who wished to 
secure my services. I have been very selfish, 
Denis. My way of life has been and is a grief to 
my mother, but I have not minded that. I have 
cared for her needs ; she lacks for nothing. I am 
well paid for the work I do ; but I have never 
considered her scruples. She has never heard me 
speak in public. She will not listen to me when I 
talk of my work, nor read the books and pamphlets 
I take to the house. I am beginning to think 
she is right and I am wrong. There is good in 
socialism, but I cannot go so far as they require 
me. I uttered things to-night I did not believe. I 
have often spoken against my convictions. I do 
believe the poor have great and crying wrongs 
requiring redress, but socialism will not work the 
cure. Now that I am behind the scenes, I have 
seen many things I cannot approve. The very 
selfishness and greed they condemn is too often the 
mainspring of their own lives. Before hjiig I 


298 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


should have separated myself from them, even had 
you not come back. Of late I have begun to 
ponder things in my heart. I am a difi'erent 
woman, Denis, from what I _ have been, but I have 
much to ask forgiveness for. God has been 
merciful to me.’ 

‘ And to me,’ said Denis, with a full heart. 

‘ You have no wife, have you, Denis ? ’ was his 
sister’s next unexpected question. 

‘ No ; but to-morrow, Ehoda, I shall tell you all 
my experiences. They have not been unchequered. 
I seem to have lived a lifetime since the old days 
in Hanbury Lane.’ 

‘ And I also ; my experience has not been a 
common one. You must be prepared to see a 
change in our mother, Denis. She has not been 
strong for months. . I sometimes think she has 
no wish to live. She will not have the advice 
I urge upon her. She will do anything for 
you’ 

‘ Does she ever speak of me ? ’ 

‘ Never ; but I know you are never absent from 
her heart, and I have heard her in her sleep speak 
of you. You need not fear for her welcome. She 
has a larger heart than I. I do not altogether 
understand all the past, but I cannot but think 
she regrets it. I have heard her say that 
if she had her life to live she would live it 
differently. She thinks she has not done her duty 
by me.’ 

Denis was silent. He could not say otherwise. 
Ilis mother had not done well by Ehoda. The 


ZOFE CONQUERS ALL. 299 

wonder to him was that his sister should have 
developed into such a woman, the result of 
that early injustice might have been so sadly 
different. 

His train of thought was interrupted presently 
by the stoppage of the cab. When he alighted he 
saw that they were in a quiet, retired, respectable 
street, though he had no idea what direction they 
had come. Rhoda’s hand trembled as she fitted 
her key in the door. 

‘ Come in. She will not be in bed. She 
waits for me lying on the sofa in that room,’ 
she said, pointing to the door. ‘Will you go 
in alone ? ’ 

‘The shock, Rhoda?’ said Denis hesitatingly. 
‘ If she is not strong.’ 

‘Joy seldom kills,’ said Rhoda cheerily as she 
laid her cloak down. She seemed like a new 
creature. Her brother grew more amazed every 
moment at the change. 

Rhoda stepped forward and opened the door. A 
cheerful glow feU athwart the little hall. Nothing 
could have been more snug and homelike than 
the picture Denis Holgate saw within. A weU 
furnished room, a daintily spread table, a cheerful 
fire, and a sofa whereon lay a figure in an attitude 
of rest, with half-closed eyes fixed dreamily on the 
fire. He knew a great change on that face ; it was 
worn and wasted to a degree, and the hair under 
the dainty lace cap was white as snow. She 
seemed at peace, and surrounded by every comfort, 
given to her by her daughter ; she owed nothing 


300 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


to him, Denis thought, with a sharp, reproachful 
pang. 

‘ Is that you, Ehoda ? You are a little late, dear. 
Just make the cojffee before you come in. Are you 
very tired ? ’ 

To the astonishment of Denis, Rhoda stepped 
lightly to the side of the couch, motioning him to 
stand back. She knelt down and put an arm 
under her mother’s head ; the look they exchanged 
was one of fullest confidence and love. Here, 
too, was a great change — the greatest change 
of all. 

‘ Why, my darling, how well you look ! ’ he 
heard his mother say. ‘ I have never seen 
you look so lovely. What has come to you 
to-day ? ’ 

‘ A great, great joy, mother, for you and me,’ 
she said simply. ‘ I have brought something for 
you to-night, mother, a very precious gift,’ she 
added brightly, yet through falling tears. 

‘ What is that ? What can you give me more 
than you have done, my daughter? No mother 
ever had a more -loving, dutiful, generous child,’ 
said Anne Holgate, and her thin hand lay caress- 
ingly on Ehoda’s bright hair. 

‘ You think too well of me, mother. I am not 
good. Not so long ago I was neither dutiful nor 
generous. It is you, mother, who are good and 
kind. But what about this gift ? Shall I give it 
to you now ? ’ 

‘ If you like, but I want nothing but yourself, 
my darling.’ 


LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 


301 

•And one other thing, mother. You had two 
children once,’ said Ehoda, rising with a great 
trembling. ‘ Your heart yearns often after Denis, 
mother, and Denis has come back.’ 

TV>op Denis Holgate entered the room and shut 
the door. 




CHAPTER XXIV, 

SUNRISE. 

• There are in this loud stunning tide 
Of human care and crime, 

With whom tlie melodies abide 
Of th* everlasting clime/ 

Kr.fiLm, 

did Denis say he ^\•ould come to-day, 
oda ? ’ 

As soon as he could. I think he 
will not be very long,’ Rhoda answered 
cheerily. ‘ Does not the sun seem to shine 
brighter to-day, mother, because Denis has come 
back?’ 

The mother smi od i sweet and happy smile, 
but did not answer by words. It was easy to see 
from that smile that her heart w'as most utterly at 
rest. The last years had wrought a change, too, on 
Anne Holgate : the old ambition had waned, pride 
and bitterness had grown less hard. After her boy 
was gone, she knew that in sending him away, in 
her whole rearing of him, she had made a grand 
mistake. Like too many things for which we 
strive in this world, when the desire of her heart 



SUNHISE. 


303 


was granted, it became bitter to the taste, and she 
knew that it was not her desire at all. Perhaps 
her anxiety and care about Ehoda helped her to 
this conclusion. Left alone with her girl-child, she 
began to study her, and to her astonishment 
discovered that of the two hers was the finer 
nature. It was too late, however, for her influence 
to be of much use. She had left the girl in her 
young childhood to mould her own character, and 
when she turned her attention to her after Denis 
was gone, she discovered that Ehoda was no girl, 
but a woman, with mature and pronounced opinions, 
which she could not hope to shake. As time went 
on, Anne Holgate learned other lessons of humility 
and gentleness and love. Without saying much 
or making any fuss, Ehoda took her way of life 
into her own hands, asking advice or help from 
none. But in the midst of her self-will she was 
most kind, most attentive, most tender in her 
dealing with her mother. It was her aim that no 
care should touch that worn and weary heart. Her 
mother was all she had upon the face of the earth, 
and that her mother might be well and comfortable 
Ehoda toiled without a thought of self. She had 
her reward in the slow sweet turning of her mother’s 
heart to her, until she knew herself the dearest in 
the world ; ay, dearer even than Denis, the wor- 
shipped idol of the past. 

Ehoda’s complete joy at the return of her brother 
was to Anne Holgate a wonderful and mysterious 
thing. Had she been cold, distant, bitter, she 
could not have cast upon her a breath of reproach. 


304 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


She looked at her at that moment, standing 
within the curtains of the window, watching for 
him as one watches for the absent and beloved. 
The lightness of her heart seemed to have sought 
expression in her attire. She had lace about her 
throat and a cluster of Christmas roses nestling 
among it. Her face was radiant ; it even seemed 
to the fond, proud mother that there was a 
brighter sheen upon her golden head. As Ehoda 
watched, she saw a carriage whirl rapidly up the 
street ; and, knowing what it meant, her heart beat 
more quickly, her breath came quick and fast, her 
colour rose, and she looked with a slight appre- 
hension at her mother. Before she could speak, 
the prancing horses drew up at the door, and a 
moment later a loud knock sent its echoes through 
the quiet house. 

‘ That is Denis, mother,’ said Rhoda, laying her 
cool, soft hand on her mother’s brow as she passed 
her couch. ‘ He has brought some friends with 
liim to see you, old friends. You will be calm at 
meeting with them ? They have been anxious, like 
him, to see you for very long.’ 

There was the sound of voices and steps and the 
rustle of women’s dresses at the door. Anne 
Holgate half raised herself on her elbow as it was 
opened. She had no time nor desire to look 
be3^ond the first who entered, a tall, slender, 
wasted woman, with a tottering step, and a 
haggard, pallid face, lined deep with the furrows 
of age and pain, her sunken eyes brilliant just 
then with a strange and eager light. She crossed 


SUNHISE. 


305 


the room with a swift step, and knelt — ay, very 
low — beside Anne Holgate’s couch. Her veil was 
thrown back, her ungloved, nervous hands out- 
stretched in entreaty, her worn eyes fixed with 
sad eagerness on the face now flushed with strong 
excitement. 

‘ Anne ! Anne ! forgive me ! I regret the past. 
I am a sinful, miserable old woman. Forgive me, 
for my son’s sake, before I die ! ’ 

Anne Holgate trembled before the kneeling 
figure ; memories shook her, half-forgotten words 
and looks came back ; she could not for a moment 
calm herself sufficiently to speak. 

‘If not for my son’s sake, for his children’s, 
Anne,’ repeated the proud woman more humbly. 
‘ It was a great wrong I did you, one for which 
you and yours have most bitterly suffered. But 
forgive me ! you were always a nobler, better 
woman than I.’ 

Anne Holgate looked wonderingly round her. 
Her children were there, and a sweet woman with 
a girlish face and figure, clasping Ehoda’s hands 
and smiling up into her face, and here, at her feet. 
Lady Katharine, kneeling with her head bowed, 
asking to be forgiven for the past. 

What it meant, how it had come about, she did 
not know. She closed her eyes and her lips moved. 
Lady Holgate, looking up, saw the tears rolling 
slowly down her cheeks. She leaned forward and 
kissed them away. Then Anne Holgate opened 
her eyes and smiled, and their hands met in a long, 
lingering clasp. But not a word was spoken. 

26 


3o6 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


‘ Will Ehoda come to me ? ’ said Lady Holgate, 
looking round at length to see her other grand- 
child. 

Ehoda, smiling, came across the room and sat 
down on the couch beside her mother. 

‘This is my child, Anne,’ said the old woman 
tremulously. ‘ This is a Holgate of St. Cyrus. It 
is my son’s eyes I see. Don’t you remember, Anne, 
how his bright hair used to lie low on his brow 
just like Ehoda’s ? My dear, will you kiss your 
grandmother, and forgive her for your mother’s 
sake ? ’ 

After a time Winifred Barham joined a little in 
the talk, and so they grouped themselves about 
Anne Holgate’s couch, and there was not a discord 
or a jar. For the moment even the past had 
not a sting. 

‘Ehoda and I are old friends. We met once, 
many years ago,’ said Winifred, as her hand fell 
lightly on Ehoda’s slender shoulder. 

She looked up, and their eyes met. 

‘ Yes,’ said Ehoda, and her eyes filled, though 
her voice was low and steady. ‘ But you have 
given me another flower to-day, Winifred, and I 
shall not throw it away.’ 

The sun had set with a lingering and exquisite 
radiance on the sea. The after-glow still remained 
on the shimmering waves, though the moon had 
risen, and in the clear evening sky many stars 
were shining. 

Down the Ecctory Lane, in the sweet, falling 


SUNRISE. 


307 


twilight, came two figures, a lady and a gentleman, 
walking leisurely, as if they had come out to enjoy 
the restful calm of the summer night. At the end 
of the village street they turned aside and took 
the path which led by the home of Captain Silas to 
the shore. There was no one in it now. As he 
had left it, so it still remained. But there was no 
sign of neglect or decay about the little home : the 
windows were clean and bright, their muslin 
screens fresh and white, the doorstep cleanly 
washed, the little garden free from weeds. The 
dwellers in the Haven kept it thus, a little 
sanctuary sacred to the memory of Captain Silas. 
Cicely Sutton kept the key, and it gave her a 
melancholy pleasure to show the place to any 
interested, sympathetic visitor, and to tell with 
many a tear the story of the old man and the little 
child. The two who paused a moment by the low 
fence guarding the place from the road had known 
and loved them both, and they talked of them as 
they walked on, perhaps mostly of the little child. 

‘ We expect to see the fog-bell house a reality 
before we leave the Haven this year,’ said Winifred 
Barham, as they turned their faces seawards. ‘ The 
plans are approved, and the work is to begin im- 
mediately. Grandmamma is so interested in it, 
Denis. She has grown to love this place.’ 

‘ As all do who ever come to it,’ answered Denis 
Holgate dreamily. ‘You will let me contribute 
something to the fund ? I should like to feel I had 
put a stone in the fog-bell house, which will be a 
fitting memorial to Gilbert’s little girl.’ 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


3^3 

‘If it will please you very much, I will,’ said 
Winifred, with a smile, and then a silence fell upon 
them. They knew each other so well now, that 
words were not a necessity in their companionship. 
As yet no word of love had passed the lips of 
Denis Holgate, though that love had become the 
most precious thing in his life. It was now two 
years since Guy Barham’s death. I do not know 
that Winifred suspected his love ; she had found 
his friendship very sweet, and had not troubled 
herself regarding any issue it might have. She 
was quietly, unmistakeably happy in her way of life, 
devoted to her grandmother, and loving with true 
sincerity the new friends she had found in Denis 
Holgate’s mother and sister, 

‘ Why did you not wait and bring Aunt Anne 
and Rhoda down ? ’ she asked presently. ‘ Another 
day was not very long to wait.’ 

‘ No, but I wanted to come alone first, Winifred,’ 
he made answer, and she did not ask him 
why. 

They made a goodly pair standing together on 
the high footpath leading across the marshes : he 
tall, strong, resolute, bearing his manliness in every 
gesture ; a strong man, a good man, a true man 
Denis Holgate now in every particular, a man who 
having found his life-work did it to the utmost of 
the ability God had given him, and wholly for His 
sake. Needless to say, his work was a blessing to 
himself and to many others. A God-fearing 
physician, with opportunity to minister both to 
soul and body, what man could desire a nobler 


SUNJilSE. 


309 


heritage or wider scope ? Unto whom much is 
given, of him much will be required. 

‘ Will Mr. Frew come with them to-morrow ? 
He will take a rest soon surely. He has been a 
veritable slave to St. Saviour’s for twelve months 
and more.’ 

‘ If not to-morrow, he will come soon, I fancy,’ 
said Denis Holgate, with a slight smile. ‘ How 
restful it is here ! I know of nothing which can 
give a worker fresher energy than this. The wide- 
ness, the freedom, the peculiar beauty of this 
prospect always impress me. Just look at yoijder 
light on the sea, Winifred. Is it not exquisite ? ’ 

They had now reached the little promontory 
where the hulk of the Lucy Wright still lay ; and 
it seemed natural that they should pause awhile, 
as many strollers did, and take their rest beside 
‘ th’ owd lass.’ 

The tide was full, and lapped the shore with a 
soft, musical murmur which mingled sweetly with 
the other drowsy sounds of the summer air. The 
fishing-boats in the breakwater were drifting lazily 
to and fro, as if playing with the soft night wind. 
On the sand-hiUs the pink sea-daisies, beloved of 
their little name-child, blew freshly among the tall 
green grass. The Haven was in the prime of its 
summer beauty, no hint of cruel storm or treacherous 
fog was in sea or air or sky. 

Winifred sat down on the old boat, her white 
dress showing well against the dark background. 
She took off her hat and allowed the sweet wind to 
play with the waving hair which no fastening could 


310 BRIAR AND PALM. 

keep from straying on her broad white brow. Hers 
was a sweet face indeed ; all lines and marks of care 
had wholly gone from it now, because her heart was 
most utterly at rest ; she knew that she was per- 
fectly happy at this moment, and that she wished 
it might last for ever. But she did not admit to 
herself that it was because Denis Holgate stood 
near, his earnest tones making sweetest melody in 
ear and heart. 

‘ Winifred,’ he said presently, bringing his eyes 
from the moonlit pathway on the sea to her sweet 
dear face, ‘ do you feel happy and at home here 
with me ? ’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

Winifred Barham could not have uttered another 
word, and she began to tremble, she knew not 
why. 

‘ I have tried to make myself a worthier, better 
man, Winifred ; my desire first being to make my- 
self worthy of your precious friendship. It is still 
precious, but it is not enough. Do you under- 
stand ? ’ 

She bent her head and clasped her hands, and 
the sweet colour rose silently in her cheek. But 
no word fell from her happy, trembling lips. Only 
her heart filled with that unspeakable tenderness 
and rest a woman feels when the crown of her life 
comes to her, offered in a true, earnest, unselfish 
love. 

‘ I am still very unworthy. The best of us, I 
think, however we may strive and labour, fall far 
short of the height upon which such women as you 


SUNJilSE. 


3 ” 

stand unapproached. A good woman, even on earth, 
lives nearer heaven than any man can ever hope to 
live. Will you help me, Winifred ? Will you 
take me as I am, and let me try to care for you ? 
As I live, I love you beyond anything on earth. 
You know all my past. In our talks I have hid 
nothing from you, and yet, knowing all, you have 
not withheld your friendship,’ he went on. ‘ It is 
that which gives me courage to ask that you will 
not withhold something else from me. I have 
not much to offer ycwi, and 1 know that if you come 
to me you will have to give up much. But love 
has made me bold. Winifred, will you give me 
yourself ? ’ 

She rose, hat and wrap fell to the grass at her 
feet, and she stood before him with clasped hands 
in silence. But her eyes met his, and their infinite 
trust had a message for him. 

So, by the old boat where Denis Holgate had 
spent a dark hour in the old life, the dawn of 
the new cast its radiance on his happy heart. 
For there is no hour in a man’s life when he feels 
nobler and better and more earnest in all that 
is good, than when a good woman places her 
hand in his, and, with the trust of infinite love, 
leaves her destiny to be shaped by his love. A 
pure and unselfish human love beyond a doubt 
brings our hearts more near to the greatness of the 
Divine. 

An hour later Denis Holgate took Winifred back 
to the Rectory, but left her to go in alone. He 


312 


BRIAR AND PALM. 


wanted to look down before it was too late to see his 
old friends at the ‘ Boot and Shoe.’ He was glad 
to find Cicely alone in the kitchen ; Sutton, tired 
with his day’s work, had gone early to bed. Cicely 
was putting things in shape for the night, the 
loungers about the old inn having also wearied of 
their own conversation, and sought their homes to 
rest their tongues. 

‘ Coom in, coom in. Doctor ’Ow’git,’ she said 
most heartily. ‘ I heerd yo’d coom ; indeed I saw 
tha ower th’ marshes wi’ Mrs. Bar’ am. An’ art tha 
weel, doctor ? Eh, but it’s a rare pleasur’ to see 
thee agen. Thou’rt not furgetten i’ th’ Haven, 
noan more’ii th’ parson, bless ’im ! But sit doon, 
sit doon. Nivver moind ma lang tongue, but coom 
tell me a’ aboot thysen.’ 

‘ There is not very much to tell. Cicely. I am 
a very busy and a very happy man,’ he answered 
readily. 

She looked at him keenly with her kind, clear eyes. 

‘ I wadna seek to be impident, doctor ; it’s 
because I loove tha I’d loike to hear summat 
more,’ she said, with her pleasant smile. ‘ When I 
seed yo an’ her sittin’ bi tha owd boat, I says to 
mysen, that’s a’ reet. We a’ loove her here i’ 
th’ Haven. Th’ owd lady an’t a bad sort either ; 
but Mrs. Bar’am, she’s an angel. Is she to be thy 
angel, doctor ? 

‘ Yes.’ 

Then Cicely had to shake him by the hand, 
and bid God bless them both, in her hearty, loving 
fashion. 


SUNJi/SE. 


313 


‘ An’ we’ve gotten Lycldy made a grand lady sin’ 
thou wert here last year,’ she said, with a twinkle 
in her eye. ‘ Thou made a mistak’, doctor, if thou 
thowt as oor Lyddy ’ud wear th’ willow fur thee. 
She’s drivin’ her own kerrige up theer near 
VVaveney, an’ seems as happy as a queen.’ 

‘ How did it come about ? ’ Holgate asked, with 
deep interest. He had heard of the marriage, but 
knew no particulars. 

‘ It began last September, when he wur livin’ i’ 
the Haven wi’ his mother an’ sisters, as foine ladles 
as ivver you saa ! Lyddy got in wi’ them, an’ they 
wur vera friendly, an’ the young gentleman, he 
got into the way o’ coomin’ here of an evenin’, an’ 
so a bit o’ loove grew up atween the twa. He’s as 
foine a chap as yo iwer seed. An’ i’ the winter 
they had ’er up stayin’ wi’ them at the Hall, where 
she’s th’ mistress noo ; an’ they’re a’ as happy as can 
be. He has plenty money. Yo’ ken the big mills 
up at Thornleigh belangs to him. Ay, the girl’s 
gradely weel off noo, an’ she knaws it, doctor. 
Theer nivver wur a greater change in enny won than 
in oor Lyddy, she’s that gentle an’ kindly ; an’ she 
mak’s him a good woife, as weel she may. So tha 
sees, doctor, she’s made a better match, after a’, 
than thou’d ’a been, eh ? ’ 

‘ She has indeed. I never was so glad to hear 
anything,’ Holgate said sincerely. 

‘ Bless me ! theer’s some won at the door, an’ it 
after ten. Theer’s fowk, doctor, as ’ud pour beer 
into their insides mornin’, noon, and neet if they 
cud get them silly enow to give it ’em,’ said 
27 


314 BRIAR AND PALM. 

Cicely somewhat wrathfully ; but, to her astonish- 
ment, the door was opened immediately after the 
knock, and who sliould enter but the ‘ parson,’ as 
Gilbert Frew was still affectionately called in the 
Haven, though there was another in his place. 

‘ Bless me, Gilbert ! ’ exclaimed Holgate in utter 
amazement. ‘ Where have you sprung from ? I 
left you in London this morning.’ 

‘ Yes ; but I came in by the last train, and have 
walked from Southport. And how are you. Cicely ? 
You are not a bit changed,’ he said heartily, as he 
shook hands with his old friend. 

She was not able to speak, her eyes were full of 
tears, and she turned aside with a sob. The sight of 
the parson awoke too many memories, very tender 
memories, in her heart. 

‘ Can you put me up. Cicely ? ’ asked the parson 
after a minute, and that brought back her self- 
control. 

‘ Surely, surely, and reet prood to do it, sur,’ she 
said, hugely pleased at the idea of giving him house- 
room at the ‘ Boot and Shoe.’ 

‘ There is plenty of room at the Kectory, Gill>ert,’ 
Holgate said ; but the curate nodded to him, and 
he understood that, to please Cicely, he would stay 
the night at least at the inn. 

‘ Don’t shut up for a little. Cicely. I shall walk 
round to the Rectory with the doctor,’ he said. ‘ I 
have a great deal to say to you when I come back.’ 

So the friends left the house together, and walked 
arm in arm down the quiet familiar street and 
turned up the Rectory Road. 


SUNRISE. 


315 


‘ I am going hack to-morrow. I wanted to see 
you to-night, Denis, before your mother and sister 
come down.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Denis, rather absently. He had 
caught sight of a shadow on the blind at one of the 
Rectory windows, and for a moment his thoughts 
wandered to Winifred. 

‘ Can you guess why ? ’ 

‘ No ; what is it ? Anything particular ? ’ 

‘ Yes. Will you give your sister to me, Denis ? ’ 

‘ Ehoda ? ’ A smile dawned on the surgeon’s 
face. ‘ I have no control over her. It would be 
rather late in the day for me to seek to rule her 
actions, wouldn’t it ? ’ 

The curate smiled too ; but in a moment Holgate 
became serious and earnest, and, turning to his 
friend, grasped his hand. 

‘ We have been brothers so long, Gilbert, that it 
seems as if nothing could bring us any nearer to 
each other,’ he said. ‘ But there is nothing in the 
world would give me greater joy than to see Rhoda 
your wife.’ 

‘ I thought so, but I wanted to hear it from your 
lips,’ said the curate. ‘ I feel at times that I have 
asked a great deal from her. She is so young and 
beautiful. Life is all before her. And I am grow- 
ing old, Denis, and these motherless boys are no 
light charge.’ 

‘ Old ! You will never be old. And if Rhoda 
chooses to take the boys, Gilbert, she will not con- 
sider them a burden. It will be the very life for 
her. She has promised, I hope ? ’ 


3i6 


BRI4R AND PALM. 


‘ Yes.’ 

‘ Then we are both going the same way,’ said Denis 
lightly. ‘ Winifred has not said me nay, Gilbert.’ 

‘ I did nof think she would. God bless you 
both ! ’ 

They had reached the Rectory Lane, and a little 
way along its leafy shade they paused, and, leaning 
on the low wall, looked over into the churchyard. 

‘ We have been strangely led since we were so 
familiar with this place, Gilbert,’ said Denis, looking 
round. ‘ Many a time have I come down this lane 
with an awful bitterness in my heart. I am over- 
whelmed when I think of the mercy the Lord has 
vouchsafed to me. At this moment I cannot 
honestly say I have a single care.’ 

‘ You have not been without them in the past. 
What a future is before you and your sweet wife ! 
She will be a true helpmeet to you, Denis.’ 

‘ She will ; but, Gilbert, she has given up a great 
deal for me. When she becomes my wife not only 
Scaris Dene, but her late husband’s means, will pass 
from her. 1 am glad that it is so. I could not 
bear that she should spend anything of his ; but 
it is a sacrifice few women would make without 
the slightest hesitation, as she has done. It but 
makes my debt the greater.’ 

‘ Don’t brood upon it. Love is nothing without 
sacrifice ; it is its crown. And what is she giving 
up in comparison with what she is gaining ? The 
mere things of this world will never satisfy the 
need of a human heart. And, besides, some day 
you will be able to give her a great position. 


SUNHISB. 


317 


She may be Lady Holgate of St. Cyrus some 
day.’ 

Denis shook his head. 

‘ I should not like to trust to that, but I can 
honestly say I do not desire it. I love my work ; 
and, thanks to my grandmother’s generous kind- 
ness, I am now in a position to offer my wife a 
home where at least sordid care will never touch 
her. She paid two thousand pounds for Parsons’ 
practice, Gilbert. Would you have thought it 
worth that?’ 

‘ Yes, it is very extensive. You had a tough 
battle with Lady Holgate, I fancy, regarding the 
relative advantages of the East and West End ? ’ 

‘ Yes. She was for the West End practice, of 
course ; but the ladies all sided with me, and we 
won the day. But I only regard my grandmother’s 
money as a loan. I gratefully accept the kindness 
she bestows on my mother, but I cannot take any- 
thing for myself.’ 

‘ You have a proud spirit, Denis. Have you 
never seen your uncle yet ? ’ 

‘ No ; he would not receive me, or acknowledge 
my mother. He has alienated himself from his 
mother on our account, and lives, 1 am told, like a 
hermit at St. Cyrus. His ill-health prevents him 
going out. He must be very wretched.’ 

They were silent a moment, and listened to the 
soft wind stirring the leafy branches of the limes 
and sighing through the churchyard grass. 

Peace was in both their hearts, and a humble 
gratitude for the care and love which had so 


3»8 


BRIAR AND PALM, 


guided their footsteps along some of life’s thorny 
paths. 

‘What are you thinking of, Denis?’ asked the 
curate, seeing the softened and beautiful expression 
on the face of his friend. 

‘ I was recalling some words your little daughter 
said to me long ago in the garden up yonder.’ 

‘ Ay ? what were they ? ’ 

‘ “ God knows all about us. He loves us very 
much.” If we could always remember that, Gilbert, 
how very different would be our walk through life ! ’ 

‘ It would, my friend. Ay, the child’s faith has 
had an early fruition. But we must battle on, 
doing what we can for His sake. May we all pass 
into His presence with souls as pure and loving as 
hers,’ 

The surgeon brushed the tears from his eyes as 
he answered, low and reverently, — 

‘ Amen, and amen 1 ’ 


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